Chapter 3 - THE FADED TRAIN TICKET
The faded train ticket sat on the silver serving tray, mocking everything I thought I knew about my family.
My grandfather had been my hero. He had raised me, taught me how to read, and held my hand when the world felt too heavy. Now, a mafia boss was telling me he was a criminal, and a terrifying man with a silver cane was claiming a blood debt.
Nicholas reached out and picked up the ticket.
His knuckles turned white as he read the date. October 14th.
"Springfield," Nicholas murmured, his voice tight. "This was a one-way ticket out of the city. The night my father died, the police scoured every train station looking for the killer. They never checked the manifest for Arthur Hayes."
"Because he didn't do it!" I argued, my voice rising above the soft piano music. Several diners turned to look, but a sharp glare from one of Nicholas's bodyguards made them instantly look away.
"Grace," my manager, Terry, hissed, suddenly appearing at my elbow. His face was slick with terrified sweat. "You are causing a scene with the DeLuca family. You're fired. Give me your apron and get out."
I stared at Terry, the reality of my overdue bills crashing down on me. "Terry, please. I need this job."
"Not anymore, you don't."
Nicholas didn't even look at Terry. He simply raised his hand.
One of his bodyguards stepped forward, placing a massive, tailored shoulder squarely into Terry's chest, physically moving the manager away from our table.
"She doesn't work for you anymore," Nicholas said to Terry. Then he turned his dark, intense eyes to me. "She works for me."
I blinked in shock. "What?"
"My mother needs a companion," Nicholas stated, gesturing to Teresa, who was still clutching her purse, breathing heavily from Vincent's visit. "Someone who is patient. Someone who understands stroke recovery. You sit with her, you help her with her speech therapies, and you keep her company at the estate."
"Mr. DeLuca, I am a waitress. I'm not a nurse."
"I don't need a nurse. I have six on staff," Nicholas countered smoothly. "I need someone my mother actually smiles at. And more importantly, I need someone who is wearing the missing piece of my father's murder investigation."
I looked down at the amber necklace.
"I'll pay you triple whatever this restaurant pays you in a month, paid weekly in cash," Nicholas offered, his tone leaving absolutely no room for negotiation. "And I will keep Vincent away from you. If he thinks your grandfather owed him a debt, he will not stop until he collects it."
I looked at Teresa. The elderly woman reached out, her trembling fingers gently wrapping around my wrist.
She looked at me with such profound, desperate loneliness that my heart broke all over again.
"Please," she forced the word out, her eyes pleading.
I swallowed hard, untying my apron and dropping it onto the chair. "When do I start?"
"Right now."
The DeLuca estate was located in the wealthy northern suburbs, hidden behind massive wrought-iron gates and ancient oak trees. The mansion was a sprawling stone fortress, beautiful but terrifyingly silent.
Nicholas led me and Teresa through a grand foyer lined with marble.
"My mother's quarters are in the west wing," Nicholas explained, taking his coat off. "You'll have the suite next to hers."
Before I could process the fact that I was moving into a mafia mansion, a small, sudden movement caught my eye.
Peeking around the corner of a massive mahogany staircase was a little girl.
She couldn't have been more than six years old. She wore a pristine white nightgown, her dark hair falling in messy waves around a pale, delicate face.
But it was her eyes that shattered my heart. They were huge, dark, and filled with a haunted, ancient sorrow that no child should ever carry.
Nicholas stopped. The tension in his broad shoulders instantly melted away.
"Mia," Nicholas said softly, dropping to one knee on the hard marble floor.
The little girl didn't run to him. She walked slowly, silently, clutching a worn stuffed rabbit against her chest. She stepped into her father's arms, burying her face in his neck.
"This is my daughter, Mia," Nicholas said, looking up at me over her small shoulder. "She hasn't spoken a single word since her mother passed away two years ago."
I knelt down slowly, keeping my distance so I wouldn't frighten her. "Hi, Mia. I'm Grace."
Mia turned her head. She looked at me for a long time, her dark eyes scanning my face.
Then, her gaze dropped to my throat.
She stared at the amber necklace.
Without a sound, Mia let go of her father. She walked over to me, reaching her tiny hand out. She didn't touch the necklace.
Instead, she grabbed my hand and pulled.
"She wants to show you something," Nicholas said, standing up, a look of profound confusion crossing his face. "She hasn't willingly engaged with a stranger since the funeral."
I let the little girl lead me up the grand staircase. Nicholas followed closely behind.
Mia led us down a long, dimly lit corridor, stopping in front of a heavy oak door at the far end. She pushed it open with both hands.
It was a library, smelling of old paper and leather.
Mia walked directly to a massive wingback chair in the corner. Draped over the back of the chair was a heavy, dark wool coat.
She pointed at it.
"That was my father's coat," Nicholas whispered, stepping into the room. "He was wearing it the night he died. The police returned it years ago."
Mia looked at me, then pointed to the pocket of the coat.
I looked at Nicholas. He gave a sharp, tense nod.
My hands shook as I reached into the heavy wool pocket. My fingers brushed against something stiff and metallic.
I pulled it out.
It was a thick, silver pocket watch. The glass face was cracked, frozen forever at 11:42 PM.
But that wasn't what made my blood run entirely cold.
Tucked behind the shattered glass of the watch was a small, perfectly preserved photograph.
I stared at the image, my breath catching in my throat.
It was a picture of my grandfather, Arthur.
And standing right beside him, with his arm slung casually over my grandfather's shoulder, smiling warmly for the camera, was Nicholas's father.
They weren't just acquaintances. They were best friends.
"My uncle lied," Nicholas whispered, stepping closer, his eyes locked on the photograph. "He said your grandfather was just a hired fence."
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Nicholas looked from the photograph to me, his jaw tightening into a lethal line.
"My uncle didn't just frame your grandfather, Grace," Nicholas said, his voice echoing in the quiet library. "He used him as the scapegoat to cover up the fact that he ordered the hit on his own brother."
