Chapter 3 - THE UNINVITED GUEST
Tires crunched over gravel outside the tall foyer windows. Headlights swept across the ceiling, painting long shadows across the walls.
Roman moved with lethal efficiency. He took the journal and the mitten, crossed the room, and slid them beneath the cushion of the newly repositioned cream sofa. “Mara. Go upstairs.”
“I’m in lemon pajamas,” Mara whispered, planting her feet squarely on the rug. “If I run up the stairs, I look like a panicked accomplice. If I stay down here holding a cup of herbal tea, I look like an eccentric house-sitter who likes moving furniture at two in the morning. Which, coincidentally, is the truth.”
A glimmer of something fierce and approving crossed Roman’s dark eyes before his mask slid back into place.
The heavy front door swung wide without a knock. Silvio DeLuca entered. He was sixty, silver-haired, draped in an expensive camel-hair coat, his face flushed with an urgency he tried unsuccessfully to conceal behind an arrogant smile.
“Roman,” Silvio said, his eyes scanning the foyer instantly, lingering on Cal before darting straight to the blank wall where the portrait had hung. “Cal told my dispatch your transponder registered at the gate. I was downtown finishing dinner when my security feed buzzed. A silent perimeter trip on the hallway sensors.”
“Good evening, Uncle,” Roman said, his posture deceptively relaxed as he leaned against the mantelpiece. “I arrived early from New York.”
Silvio’s eyes locked onto the empty plaster. His lips thinned. “Where is your grandfather?”
“Storage,” Mara chimed in cheerfully, stepping out from behind the foyer arch with a ceramic mug. “I’m Mara. Aunt Nora’s house-sitter. Michael DeLuca’s portrait had a terrible judgmental glare that ruined the chi of the downstairs hallway. Roman and I were just discussing whether to move him to the carriage house or donate him to a museum for stern Italian men.”
Silvio’s cold gaze raked over Mara with blistering condescension. “Who authorized a domestic to rearrange ancestral property?”
“I did,” Roman said. The quiet authority in his voice made Silvio stop. “She works for Nora, which means she works for the family. And she’s right. The wall was damaged.”
Silvio took two deliberate steps toward the exposed wainscoting. His eyes flicked to the latch. It sat half an inch out of alignment. “The paneling has settled. Old house. I’ll send my private carpenters in the morning to repair the lath and plaster. Don't touch it again.”
“No need,” Roman replied evenly. “Cal can seal it.”
Silvio turned, his face tight with controlled rage. He reached inside his coat, not for a weapon, but for a worn gold pocket watch on a heavy chain—Michael DeLuca’s personal timepiece. He clicked it open, checked the dial, and snapped it shut with an aggressive crack.
“You’ve been back in town ten minutes, Roman, and you’re already upsetting traditions. Leo called me from the Drake hotel bar three hours ago, completely unhinged. If you can’t manage your little brother, the board will step in. And leave your grandfather’s wall alone. Some things in this house were buried for a reason.”
Silvio turned and strode out, the heavy front door slamming shut behind him.
Mara let out a slow, trembling breath. “He knows what was in that wall.”
May you like
Roman walked over to the sofa, retrieved the journal, and opened to the first page. A small, tarnished silver key fell onto the fabric.
“Silvio didn’t come for the wall,” Roman said, staring at the key. “He came because the lock inside that safe was keyed to my grandfather’s private warehouse in Kenosha. And my mother didn’t die in Florida.” He held up a folded slip of yellowed paper tucked inside the back cover. “This is a receipt for perpetual care at a sanatorium in rural Wisconsin, dated three months ago.”
