Chapter 2 - THE THIRD SHADOW
The television screen cast a harsh, pale light across the dining room.
Nobody moved.
Nobody breathed.
On the screen, frozen in high definition, was the third shadow in the corridor.
The man waiting for Charles.
I stared at the paused image, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought the men at the table could hear it.
I knew that face.
Everyone in this room knew that face.
It was Matteo Caruso.
Dominic’s younger brother.
He was sitting three chairs down from Dominic right now. Wearing a tailored gray suit. Sipping his wine just seconds before the video played.
Now, Matteo’s glass hovered halfway to his mouth.
His face was completely drained of color.
Dominic didn’t yell. He didn’t slam his fist on the table.
That wasn’t how Dominic Caruso operated.
He just slowly turned his head, his dark eyes locking onto his brother.
"Matteo," Dominic said softly.
Matteo set his wine glass down. His hand was trembling so badly the crystal clinked against the mahogany table.
"Dominic, I can explain," Matteo started, his voice cracking.
"You were waiting for Charles in the old freight corridor," Dominic said, his tone conversational, which only made it more terrifying. "During a lockdown. While my private files were being stolen."
Charles Mercer suddenly stood up, his chair scraping violently against the hardwood floor.
"He forced me to do it!" Charles shouted, pointing a shaking finger at Matteo. "He said if I didn't get the folder, he'd tell you about the missing shipments from the docks! He blackmailed me, Dominic!"
Matteo bolted out of his chair. "You lying snake! You came to me!"
"Sit," Dominic said.
Neither man moved. They were too busy glaring at each other, desperate to survive the next five minutes.
"I said sit down."
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Charles sank back into his chair. Matteo swallowed hard and slowly did the same.
I stood frozen near the edge of the table, the silver coffee tray still clutched in my hands, my injured knee throbbing with a dull, hot pain. I wanted to disappear into the wallpaper. I wanted to be anywhere else in the world.
But Dominic’s gaze shifted to me.
"Hannah."
"Yes, sir," I whispered.
"You saw Charles with the folder. Did you see my brother?"
"No, sir. I only saw Mr. Mercer. Before the security gate was slammed shut on me."
Dominic looked back at the television. He gestured to his security chief, who was standing by the door.
"Play the rest of the clip," Dominic ordered.
The video resumed.
On screen, Charles approached Matteo. He handed over the brown leather folder.
But Matteo didn’t just take the folder and walk away.
Matteo reached into his own pocket and handed something back to Charles. Something small. Metallic. It flashed in the dim corridor light.
Dominic leaned forward, his eyes narrowing.
"Pause it," Dominic said. "Zoom in on Charles’s hand."
The image enlarged, becoming pixelated, but clear enough to see what had just been exchanged.
It wasn't money.
It wasn't a key.
It was a heavy, intricate silver cross attached to a chain of dark beads.
My breath caught in my throat.
The tray in my hands rattled.
Dominic heard it. He looked at me, taking in my pale face, my wide eyes.
"Charles," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper. "Empty your pockets. Now."
Charles looked like a man standing on the gallows.
"Dominic, it’s nothing—"
"Empty them, or my men will cut them out of your suit."
Charles reached into his right jacket pocket with a violently shaking hand.
He pulled out the silver object and placed it on the dining table.
The heavy silver cross. The dark, polished obsidian beads.
It lay there, gleaming under the chandelier.
A sudden ringing filled my ears. The room started to spin.
I didn't care about the rules anymore. I didn't care that he was a mafia boss or that I was just a maid.
I stepped forward, my bad knee screaming in protest, and stared down at the object on the table.
"Where did you get that?" I choked out, my voice breaking.
Dominic looked from me to the necklace, then back to me.
"You recognize this, Hannah?"
Tears I couldn't control spilled over my eyelashes.
"It has a scratch on the back of the cross," I whispered, pointing a trembling finger at it. "Right above the center. A deep groove."
Dominic picked it up. He turned it over.
His thumb traced the exact scratch I had described.
He looked up at me, his expression unreadable. "Whose is it?"
"It’s my husband’s," I said, a sob tearing through my throat. "He was wearing it the night he died three years ago."
Dominic stared at me in total silence.
Then, he looked at Charles.
And Charles smiled.
Not a fearful smile. A cold, knowing, vicious smile.
"I told you, Dominic," Charles whispered. "You don't even know who you let inside your own house."
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Dominic pulled a black handgun from his waistband and set it gently on the table next to my husband’s rosary.
"Someone," Dominic said quietly, "is going to start talking."
