Chapter 2 - THE LOCKED SCREEN
“Dominic… you need to open her phone.”
The elderly man who spoke was Silvio.
Seventy years old.
Dominic Romano’s godfather, his oldest advisor, and a man who had not raised his voice in two decades.
He didn’t need to. When Silvio spoke, the Chicago underworld listened.
He sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, his hands trembling slightly, staring at Celeste as if he were looking at a ghost.
The shattered glass of his wine goblet lay in pieces on the imported Turkish rug. Red wine soaked into the wool like blood.
Dominic didn’t look at Silvio. He kept his eyes locked on his fiancée.
“Give me the phone, Celeste,” Dominic said.
His voice was terrifyingly calm.
Celeste took a step backward, her red silk gown rustling in the dead silence of the dining room. Her fingers clamped down on her small designer clutch.
“Dominic, this is insane,” she laughed, a high, brittle sound that echoed off the crystal chandeliers. “You’re going to let a maid and an old man ruin our dinner party?”
“The phone.”
Dominic extended one hand.
“No!” Celeste snapped, her panic finally breaking through her polished veneer. “I have a right to privacy! You are humiliating me in front of our friends!”
Anthony, Dominic’s brother, stood up from his chair.
“If you have nothing to hide, Celeste, just hand it over. Because right now, that photograph makes it look like I’m a traitor. And I’m not.”
Celeste’s eyes darted toward the heavy oak double doors leading to the foyer.
Two men in dark suits stepped in front of them, folding their arms.
Nobody was leaving.
I stood completely still, my hands still gripping the empty dinner plate. My heart hammered violently against my ribs.
I just needed a paycheck. I just needed to keep my mother from losing her house.
And now, I was standing at ground zero of a mafia war.
Dominic didn’t wait any longer. He walked around the table, his footsteps heavy and deliberate.
Celeste backed up until her shoulders hit the grand fireplace mantel.
“Dominic, please,” she whispered, tears finally pooling in her perfectly lined eyes. “It’s not what you think.”
Dominic reached out, snatched the clutch from her hands, and opened it. He pulled out her phone.
It was locked.
He held it up to her face.
The screen flashed, the facial recognition scanner catching her terrified features.
A tiny padlock icon clicked open.
Dominic looked down at the screen.
The entire room held its breath.
I expected him to read a text message. I expected him to find an email to Victor Salerno.
But Dominic didn’t read anything.
He just stared at the lock screen wallpaper.
The muscle in his jaw flexed so hard I thought it might snap.
He turned the phone around so Silvio could see it.
“Is this what you saw, Silvio?” Dominic asked softly.
Silvio leaned forward, squinting. His face went entirely pale.
“Yes,” the old man whispered.
I was close enough to see the screen.
It wasn’t a text. It wasn’t a document.
It was a photograph of a silver rosary.
Not just any rosary. The beads were made of dark, heavy onyx, and the silver crucifix was slightly bent at the bottom.
Anthony gasped. “Dom… is that…?”
“Our father’s rosary,” Dominic said, his voice dropping an octave. “The one he was buried with ten years ago.”
A collective shudder went through the room.
“How do you have a picture of this, Celeste?” Dominic asked, stepping closer to her. “The casket was sealed.”
“I… I found the picture,” she stammered, shaking uncontrollably. “In an old box! Here in the penthouse!”
“Lie,” Silvio said suddenly.
Everyone turned to the old man.
Silvio gripped the edge of the dining table. He was sweating profusely.
“It’s a lie,” Silvio choked out, his chest heaving. “Because that’s not a picture of the rosary from ten years ago.”
Silvio raised a trembling finger, pointing at the hotel keycard I had picked up from the floor.
“Room 814,” Silvio wheezed. “That’s not Salerno’s room. That’s my room.”
Anthony frowned. “Your room? Silvio, what are you talking about?”
“The rosary wasn’t buried,” Silvio confessed, tears leaking from his wrinkled eyes. “I took it. Before they closed the lid. To keep him close to me.”
Dominic stared at his godfather, stunned.
“And three days ago,” Silvio continued, his breathing growing shallow and ragged. “Someone broke into Room 814. They stole it.”
The reversal hit the room like a physical blow.
Celeste wasn’t cheating with Salerno. Celeste hadn’t orchestrated a meeting at Pier Nine.
Someone was blackmailing Silvio. And Celeste was the one holding the evidence.
“Why would you steal my father’s rosary?” Dominic demanded, turning back to Celeste.
“I didn’t!” Celeste cried out. “Dominic, I swear to God, I didn’t steal it! I was just told to make sure the keycard and the photo ended up on your plate! To frame Anthony!”
“Told by who?” Dominic roared, his legendary control finally snapping.
Before Celeste could answer, a horrible, wet choking sound echoed across the room.
I turned.
Silvio was clutching his throat.
His eyes bulged, staring at the ceiling. White foam bubbled at the corners of his mouth.
“Silvio!” Anthony yelled, rushing around the table.
The old man collapsed out of his chair, hitting the Turkish rug with a heavy thud. His body began to convulse violently.
Panic erupted. Guests screamed, shoving their chairs back.
“Call an ambulance!” Dominic ordered, dropping the phone and sprinting to the old man’s side.
I dropped the dinner plate. It shattered into a dozen pieces.
I had spent years working as a nurse’s aide before taking this housekeeping job. Instinct took over.
I dropped to my knees beside Silvio, ripping his silk tie loose to open his airway.
“Turn him on his side!” I yelled at Anthony. “He’s going to choke!”
Anthony helped me roll the old man over.
Silvio grabbed my white apron, his grip incredibly strong for a dying man. His eyes were wide, filled with pure terror.
He wasn’t having a heart attack.
I looked at the shattered wineglass on the floor.
“He’s been poisoned,” I said, looking up at Dominic.
Dominic froze.
Silvio pulled my apron tighter, forcing me closer to his face.
He couldn’t breathe, but he forced his lips to move, whispering a single, ragged phrase directly into my ear.
May you like
“The girl… with the… blue coat.”
Then, Silvio’s eyes rolled back, and his hand went entirely limp.
