Chapter 2 - THE LITTLE GIRL WHO APOLOGIZED FOR BEING POOR
“Please don't fire my mama.”
Those were the first words my five-year-old daughter spoke to Vincent Donovan.
She stood in the middle of his enormous kitchen, wearing a faded pink sweater and shoes that were literally falling apart.
Her little hands were clasped together.
“I can be very quiet,” she added. “I promise.”
Nobody moved.
Mrs. Bennett gripped the edge of the kitchen counter.
Two housekeepers stood frozen beside the pantry.
And Vincent Donovan, the most feared man in Chicago, stared at my daughter as though she'd said something he wasn't prepared to hear.
“Lily,” I whispered desperately. “Come here, sweetheart.”
But Vincent raised one hand.
“Let her speak.”
My stomach twisted.
He was fifty-three years old, a man whose name could silence conversations across the city. I'd worked in his mansion for two years and had never seen anyone question him without regretting it.
Yet my daughter was standing directly in front of him.
Vincent lowered himself onto one knee.
“Why would I fire your mother?”
Lily looked at me.
“Because I came to her work.”
Then she glanced down at her shoes.
“And because these make noise.”
She lifted her left foot.
The loose sole opened beneath her toes.
“I tried fixing them,” she explained. “But the glue didn't work.”
Vincent studied the shoe for several seconds.
“What happened to your other shoes?”
“These are my other shoes.”
His expression changed.
Not dramatically.
His jaw simply tightened.
He looked toward Mrs. Bennett.
“How long has this child been here?”
“Since this morning, sir.”
“Who authorized it?”
“I did.”
Mrs. Bennett's voice trembled, but she didn't lower her eyes.
“The daycare closed unexpectedly. Mara had nowhere else to take her.”
Vincent turned toward me.
For the first time in two years, he looked directly into my face.
“Your name.”
“Mara Ellis, sir.”
“And you're her mother?”
“Yes.”
“Where's her father?”
My heart stumbled.
“He passed away three years ago.”
Lily slipped her hand into mine.
“Daddy's in heaven,” she said softly.
Vincent looked away.
For one strange moment, the kitchen seemed smaller.
Then the estate manager, Richard Kessler, appeared in the doorway.
“Mr. Donovan, I apologize. This is a clear violation of household policy. I'll arrange for Mrs. Ellis's immediate dismissal.”
My knees nearly gave out.
“Please,” I began. “I know I broke the rules, but—”
“Enough,” Vincent said.
I stopped.
But he wasn't looking at me.
He was looking at Kessler.
“Did I ask you to dismiss anyone?”
“No, sir, but—”
“Then don't make decisions in my name.”
Kessler fell silent.
Vincent stood and examined the tray in my shaking hands.
“How much do we pay you, Mrs. Ellis?”
I told him.
His eyebrows drew together.
“And you work how many hours?”
“Usually ten. Sometimes twelve.”
“Overtime?”
“Not always, sir.”
Mrs. Bennett looked down.
Vincent noticed.
“What does that mean?”
Nobody answered.
Finally, I forced myself to speak.
“Sometimes the hours don't appear correctly on my paycheck.”
Kessler stepped forward.
“That's an accounting misunderstanding.”
Vincent didn't look at him.
“I'm asking her.”
My mouth went dry.
“I requested an advance last month. Just enough for Lily's medication and daycare. I was told the estate doesn't provide financial assistance.”
Vincent stared at me.
Then he said something that made Mrs. Bennett turn white.
“That's impossible.”
He walked toward the office telephone beside the kitchen.
“Bring me the employee relief records. All of them.”
Kessler stiffened.
“Sir, those are handled through your sister's office.”
“Then call my sister.”
Vincent returned to the counter.
“My late wife established an assistance fund for employees with sick children. I've personally financed it for eight years.”
I couldn't speak.
Eight years.
I'd been working in that mansion for two.
Nobody had ever mentioned such a fund.
Twenty minutes later, Kessler returned carrying a blue accounting folder.
His face looked gray.
Vincent opened it.
He turned several pages.
Then stopped.
“Mara Ellis,” he read aloud.
My heart began pounding.
“Employee number 417. Dependent: Lily Ellis.”
He looked up.
“According to this record, you received an emergency family assistance payment last November.”
I shook my head.
“No, sir.”
Vincent turned the folder toward me.
There was my name.
My employee number.
My daughter's name.
And beside a payment authorization was a signature that looked almost exactly like mine.
Vincent tapped the amount.
$18,400.00 — PAID IN FULL.
I stared at those numbers.
My daughter was wearing broken shoes.
I had three months of overdue rent.
And somewhere inside that mansion, someone had recorded nearly nineteen thousand dollars in my name.
“I never received that money,” I whispered.
Vincent's face hardened.
Then he pointed to the signature.
“Mrs. Ellis, if you didn't sign this…”
He looked toward Kessler.
May you like
“Who did?”
And for the first time since I'd entered that mansion, I saw genuine fear cross another man's face.
