Chapter 2 - The Letters In The Flour
“Why,” Gabriel asked quietly, “is my father writing the name of a man you told me died three years ago?”
The kitchen was entirely silent, save for the heavy, rhythmic ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the hallway.
Gabriel Rinaldi did not shout. He did not raise his voice. He didn't have to. The terrifying stillness radiating from his broad shoulders was enough to make the air in the room feel suffocating. He stared down at the shallow tray of flour resting on his father’s wheelchair tray.
Three shaky, uneven letters were dragged through the white powder.
S-A-L.
Salvatore.
Salvatore Rinaldi had been Gabriel’s uncle. He had been Edward’s younger brother, his most trusted confidant, and the underboss of the Rinaldi family for three decades. Three years ago, Mrs. Caldwell had called Gabriel in Manhattan, weeping over the telephone, to tell him Salvatore had suffered a massive, fatal heart attack in his sleep.
Now, Edward’s trembling index finger was resting right beneath the ‘L’.
Mrs. Caldwell took a step backward, her pristine black housekeeping uniform suddenly looking entirely too tight around her neck. Her face had drained of all color, leaving her skin a sickly, ashen gray.
“I… I don't know what you mean, Mr. Rinaldi,” the housekeeper stammered, her hands clasping together defensively. “Your father’s mind is completely gone. He’s just drawing random lines. It’s a coincidence.”
“A coincidence,” Gabriel repeated. His voice was like ice cracking over a frozen lake.
“Yes, sir,” she insisted, her voice raising an octave in desperation. “The doctors warned us about this. Motor tics. Random neurological spasms. He doesn't know what he’s doing. This girl—” she pointed a sharp, accusatory finger at Olivia “—has been exhausting him with these childish flour games!”
Olivia instinctively wrapped her arms protectively around her pregnant belly, taking a small step back. But she didn't look away.
“They aren't random lines, Mr. Rinaldi,” Olivia said softly, her voice trembling but resolute. “He practiced those letters for two weeks. He wanted to make sure you could read them.”
Gabriel slowly turned his dark, intense gaze toward Olivia.
He took in her exhausted appearance. The dark circles under her eyes, the faded, ill-fitting maternity uniform she wore, the sheer desperation radiating from her posture. Yet, despite her obvious fear, she was standing her ground to protect an old man everyone else had discarded.
Gabriel looked back down at his father.
“Dad,” Gabriel said softly, dropping to one knee again. He placed his large, strong hand gently over Edward’s frail, shaking fingers. “Did you write Sal’s name on purpose?”
Edward’s eyes, clouded with age and unshed tears, locked onto his son’s face.
Slowly, agonizingly, Edward blinked once.
A deliberate, purposeful blink. Yes.
Gabriel’s jaw tightened so hard a muscle feathered in his cheek. “Did Sal die of a heart attack, Dad?”
Edward stared at him. He didn't blink. He kept his eyes wide open.
No.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. Gabriel stood up, his towering frame casting a long, dark shadow over the flour tray. He didn't look at Mrs. Caldwell immediately. He simply pulled a sleek, black smartphone from the inside pocket of his tailored suit.
He dialed a single number and pressed the phone to his ear.
“Lock the estate gates,” Gabriel ordered quietly. “Nobody leaves. Send two men to the kitchen.”
He ended the call and slipped the phone back into his jacket.
Mrs. Caldwell panicked. She lunged forward, her professional facade completely shattering.
“Mr. Rinaldi, you can't possibly believe this nonsense!” she cried, her voice echoing shrilly off the marble countertops. “I have served this family for twenty years! I found your uncle’s body myself! The coroner signed the death certificate! It was a heart attack!”
“We own the coroner, Helen,” Gabriel stated, using her first name with a terrifying intimacy. “If someone paid him more to lie, he would lie. And since my father was confined to a wheelchair mere days after Sal’s death, unable to speak, he couldn't challenge the narrative.”
Gabriel took a slow, deliberate step toward the housekeeper.
“What did you do to my uncle, Helen?”
“Nothing!” she screamed, backing away until her spine hit the stainless-steel refrigerator. “I swear on my life, I didn't touch him!”
“Then why is my father, a man who hasn't communicated in four years, using all his remaining strength to write his dead brother’s name?”
Before Mrs. Caldwell could answer, heavy footsteps thudded down the marble hallway. Two massive men in dark suits entered the kitchen. They didn't say a word. They simply flanked the doorway, crossing their arms, blocking any chance of escape.
Olivia felt a sharp kick against her ribs. Her baby was reacting to the intense, suffocating stress in the room. She pressed a comforting hand against her stomach, trying to steady her breathing.
Gabriel noticed the movement. He glanced at Olivia, his hard expression softening for a fraction of a second, before returning his lethal focus to the housekeeper.
“Search her room,” Gabriel ordered the men. “Tear the walls down if you have to. Find out who she’s been talking to.”
“No! Please!” Mrs. Caldwell sobbed as one of the guards grabbed her arm, restraining her easily.
But down in the wheelchair, Edward wasn't finished.
He let out a low, guttural sound from the back of his throat. It wasn't a word, but it was desperate.
Olivia immediately knelt beside him. “Mr. Edward? What is it?”
Edward ignored the flour tray. His trembling right hand slowly, painfully lifted from the armrest. His fingers curled into a loose fist, and he reached out, pointing directly at Olivia.
Olivia froze. “Me?”
Edward shook his head slightly. His trembling finger extended further, pressing against the center of Olivia’s chest.
Gabriel stepped closer, his brow furrowing in deep confusion. “What is he pointing at, Olivia?”
Olivia looked down at her chest.
Resting against the faded fabric of her maternity uniform was a small, tarnished silver locket. It hung from a cheap chain she never took off.
“My locket?” Olivia whispered, her hand rising to touch the cold metal. “He’s pointing at my locket.”
Gabriel’s eyes locked onto the piece of jewelry. His face went entirely pale. The powerful, untouchable Mafia Don looked as though all the air had just been punched from his lungs.
“Where did you get that?” Gabriel demanded, his voice dropping to a harsh, breathless whisper.
“My… my boyfriend gave it to me,” Olivia stammered, terrified by the sudden shift in his demeanor. “Before he left. He said it belonged to his grandfather.”
Gabriel didn't ask for permission. He reached out, his large fingers gently but firmly taking the locket from her hand. He didn't pull it off her neck. He simply pressed his thumb against the tiny clasp on the side.
The locket clicked open.
Inside, there wasn't a picture of a grandfather. There wasn't a picture of Olivia’s runaway boyfriend.
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Inside was a faded, black-and-white photograph of Edward and Salvatore Rinaldi, standing together on a boat in their twenties.
“This locket didn't belong to your boyfriend's grandfather,” Gabriel said softly, looking from the photograph to Olivia’s terrified eyes. “This locket belonged to my Uncle Sal. He was wearing it the night he was murdered. And it went missing from his body.”
