Chapter 5
Upstairs, the people responsible were already preparing his death.
By six the next morning, every staff member had heard that Lorenzo Duca had been shot during an attack by Albanian rivals and fallen through the greenhouse roof.
His body had not been recovered.
The official explanation claimed the storm carried him into the drainage channel that emptied toward the Sound.
It was absurd.
Grief rarely receives time to inspect a story before being asked to perform it.
At seven thirty, Victoria Ashford descended the main staircase wearing black silk and a strand of dark pearls.
She was Lorenzo’s fiancée.
They had been scheduled to marry in four months.
Victoria was thirty-six, elegant, composed, and the executive vice president of Ashford Urban Development, the company her father built through construction projects across New York.
She stood beneath the chandelier before senior employees, attorneys, guards, and the men who ran the Duca organization’s legitimate and illegitimate businesses.
Marco Bellini stood three feet behind her.
His face looked pale.
His right hand remained inside his coat pocket.
“The search will continue,” Victoria said. “But we must prepare ourselves for the likely truth.”
No tears entered her eyes.
She touched a folded handkerchief to the corner of one anyway.
“Lorenzo’s final concern was always the stability of this house. Marco has agreed to assume temporary operational leadership until the council meets.”
Marco looked down.
The man who had shot Lorenzo was being introduced as his successor before breakfast.
I stood at the edge of the staff corridor holding a tray of untouched coffee cups.
My apron covered the bloodstain near the cuff of my uniform.
Emma remained asleep in the storm room.
I had left a bottle of water, crackers, and instructions she could understand.
Stay beside the bed.
Do not climb the stairs.
If Lorenzo stops answering, press the red button on the old emergency panel.
I hated leaving her there.
I hated the alternative more.
Victoria finished speaking.
“Anyone with information about Lorenzo’s movements last night must come directly to Marco or me.”
Her eyes traveled across the room.
They stopped on my face.
Only briefly.
Enough.
I lowered my gaze.
A maid should look frightened by power.
I had three years of practice.
When the gathering ended, I carried the tray into the kitchen.
Vincent Moretti entered through the service door.
He had been Lorenzo’s security chief for twenty-seven years. Silver hair. Weathered face. A cane he did not medically require but used because people underestimated men who carried one.
He did not ask whether I had seen Lorenzo.
He placed a folded dish towel beside the sink.
Inside was a key.
“Linen closet,” he said.
My hands stopped moving.
“Third shelf. Rear panel.”
I looked at him.
His face remained turned toward the coffee machine.
“How do you know?”
“I know every wall in this house.”
“Then why didn’t you find him?”
“Because Marco removed my security access at midnight and confined three loyal guards to the east gate.”
“Why are you free now?”
“He needs me visible.”
Vincent poured coffee.
“If I disappear, the old men will ask questions.”
“Can I trust you?”
“No.”
He took one drink.
“Trust the facts. I refused Marco’s order to declare Lorenzo dead. I preserved the exterior camera files before the system was wiped. I found blood beneath the west window and no trail leaving the property.”
“Someone may be watching us.”
“Someone is.”
He left the cup near the sink.
“Use the key at noon. The panel opens into the same stairway.”
He walked out.
I waited four minutes before touching the towel.
May you like
Evidence first.
Trust later.
