Chapter 2 - THE DATE THAT BURNED DOWN A FAMILY
“October fourteenth,” I whispered, the date feeling strange on my tongue.
The silence in the grand room deepened, heavy and suffocating. Rafael didn’t gasp. He didn’t step back. Instead, all the color drained from his face, leaving him looking like carved marble. He stared at me with an intensity that made it hard to breathe.
“October fourteenth,” Rafael repeated, his voice barely a rasp. “The same night.”
“Rafael, stop this nonsense,” Celeste interrupted, stepping between us. Her polished smile was gone, replaced by a tight, panicked line. “She’s lying. She probably read about your family’s tragedy in some old newspaper. Teresa is just old and confused.”
Teresa didn’t back down. The housekeeper’s hands were shaking, but she stood taller. “I am not confused, Miss Whitmore. I remember the smell of the smoke. I remember Evelyn crying at the back door.”
I couldn’t process it. My mother—Evelyn, the woman who had packed my lunches, taught me how to braid my hair, and worked two jobs to buy my prom dress—wasn't my mother?
“My mother was Evelyn Carter,” I said, my voice trembling but stubborn. “She had photos of me at the hospital. She had my birth certificate.”
“Paperwork can be forged, Nora,” Rafael said softly, stepping around Celeste to stand directly in front of me. “Especially when someone is trying to hide a child.”
“Hide me from who?” I asked.
Rafael’s dark eyes flickered to Celeste, then back to me. “My father.”
Celeste let out a sharp, dismissive laugh. “This is insane. Your father has been in a care facility for six years, Rafael. His mind is gone. Are we really going to base our lives on the ramblings of a senile old man and a delusional housekeeper?”
Before Rafael could answer, little Ben tugged at my apron. I had forgotten the six-year-old was still clinging to my side.
“Nora?” Ben whispered, his wide eyes looking up at me. “Are you going to leave?”
“I don't know, sweetie,” I murmured, instinctively resting my hand on his small shoulder.
Celeste’s eyes narrowed at the gesture. “Get your hands off him. He’s a DeLuca. You’re the help.” She reached forward and grabbed Ben’s arm, jerking him away from me.
Ben cried out, stumbling over his own feet.
“Let him go!” I snapped, stepping forward.
“Celeste, release him,” Rafael ordered, his voice cracking like a whip.
Celeste froze, letting go of the boy. Ben immediately hid behind Rafael’s leg, not mine, but he reached out and grabbed the edge of my apron, holding it tight.
Rafael looked down at his nephew, his expression softening for a fraction of a second before hardening as he looked at me. “You mentioned a sewing box. Evelyn’s sewing box.”
My breath hitched. I hadn't mentioned the sewing box tonight. I had only thought about it. But then I remembered my interview with Teresa eleven days ago. I had told her about my mother passing and leaving me only a few possessions, including her old wooden sewing box. Teresa had clearly passed that information to Rafael.
“Yes,” I said cautiously. “It’s at my apartment.”
“We’re going to get it,” Rafael said, turning toward the door.
“Now?” Celeste demanded, her voice shrill. “Rafael, we have forty guests in the dining room! The mayor is here! We are celebrating our engagement!”
“The party is over,” Rafael said without looking back. “Tell them there was a family emergency.”
“You are choosing a maid over me?” she hissed, her hands balling into fists. “Over our future?”
Rafael finally stopped. He slowly turned to face his fiancée. “If what Teresa says is true, Celeste, she isn't a maid. She's my sister.”
The word echoed in the massive room. Sister.
I felt dizzy. The man who supposedly ran Chicago’s underground, the man whose name struck fear into politicians and businessmen alike… was my brother?
“That’s impossible,” I said, my voice shaking. “Evelyn loved me. She wouldn't have kidnapped me.”
“She didn't kidnap you,” Teresa said softly from the corner. “She saved you.”
Rafael walked over to me, his tall frame blocking out the rest of the room. “We are going to your apartment. Right now.”
“I can't leave Ben,” I blurted out, surprising myself. The little boy was still clutching my apron, trembling.
Rafael looked down at the boy. For a mafia boss, he looked remarkably helpless when it came to his nephew. “Ben comes with us.”
Twenty minutes later, I was sitting in the back of a black SUV, Ben asleep with his head on my lap, and Rafael sitting across from me in the dim light. The city passed by in a blur of streetlights and rain.
When we finally reached my small, run-down apartment building, Rafael’s bodyguards waited outside. He followed me up the narrow stairs, carrying a sleeping Ben in his arms.
I unlocked my door, embarrassed by the peeling wallpaper and the thrift-store furniture. But Rafael didn't look at the apartment. He laid Ben gently on my worn sofa, then turned to me.
“The box,” he said simply.
I walked to my bedroom closet and pulled down the heavy, dark oak sewing box. It had a brass latch that was slightly rusted. I set it on the kitchen table.
Rafael approached it as if it were a bomb. He traced the wood with two fingers. “My father made this,” he whispered. “For my mother. When they were newly married.”
He popped the latch and opened it. Inside were spools of thread, needles, and a few old photographs of me and Evelyn.
Rafael began lifting the spools. Then he pressed his thumb against the bottom panel of the box.
There was a soft click.
The false bottom lifted.
My heart stopped. I had owned this box for three years and never known it had a secret compartment.
Rafael reached inside and pulled out a delicate, tarnished silver rosary.
But it wasn't just any rosary. Woven between the beads was a heavy, gold ring bearing a crest.
“The DeLuca family seal,” Rafael murmured, his eyes locking onto mine.
But as I looked at the ring, a sickening wave of confusion hit me. I had seen that exact ring before. But not in pictures. Not in Evelyn’s things.
“Rafael,” I whispered, stepping back. “That ring… Celeste was holding one exactly like it in the hallway yesterday.”
Rafael’s head snapped up, his eyes turning dangerous. “What did you say?”
Before I could answer, my apartment door swung open.
Standing in the doorway, drenched in rain, was a man I recognized from the party. One of Rafael’s most trusted lieutenants.
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“Boss,” the man panted, looking terrified. “You need to come back. Teresa is gone.”
TITLE: The Blood on the Housekeeper's Floor
