Chapter 3 - THE BLOOD ON THE HOUSEKEEPER'S FLOOR
“Gone?” Rafael’s voice dropped to a dangerous octave. He didn’t yell; the quietness of his tone was far more terrifying. “What do you mean, gone, Marco?”
The lieutenant swallowed hard, rain dripping from his leather jacket onto my faded rug. “We went to check her quarters, boss. The door was open. Her things are there, but she’s missing. And… there’s a broken teacup. And a little blood on the rug.”
My stomach violently turned. Teresa, the sweet, elderly woman who had snuck me extra pastries during my shifts, who had just risked everything to tell the truth.
“Celeste,” Rafael breathed out, his jaw clenching. He shoved the rosary and the gold ring into his coat pocket. He looked at Ben, still sleeping soundly on my couch, then at me. “You can't stay here. It's not safe.”
“Because of Celeste?” I asked, my voice shaking. “She’s your fiancée. Why would she hurt Teresa? Why does she have a ring like that?”
“Because Celeste’s family and mine have a history that predates our engagement,” Rafael said, moving quickly to scoop Ben up again. “Grab what you need. Just the essentials. You’re coming to the safe house.”
“I’m not part of your mafia world!” I backed away. “I just wanted to clean houses and pay my rent. I don't know you!”
Rafael stopped at the door, Ben’s head resting securely on his broad shoulder. His dark eyes softened, just a fraction. “You have my mother’s eyes, Nora. You know my mother’s song. And you just discovered you’ve been living a lie for twenty-nine years. You can stay here and wait for whoever took Teresa to come for you, or you can come with me and get the truth.”
I looked at the empty sewing box on the table. Evelyn had lied to me. The woman I worshipped had hidden a false bottom in a box I kept by my bed.
I grabbed my coat and followed him out into the rain.
The “safe house” wasn't a gritty bunker; it was a stunning penthouse overlooking Lake Michigan, cold, modern, and completely sterile. The security was stifling. Men in suits stood at the elevator banks and the doors.
Rafael laid Ben in a guest bedroom, leaving the door cracked. Then he poured himself a glass of whiskey at the kitchen island, his hands unsteady.
“Who is my father?” I asked, refusing the glass he offered me.
“Vincenzo DeLuca,” Rafael said, staring at his drink. “He was a hard man. Still is. Six years ago, he had a stroke. He lives in a private medical wing at our estate outside the city.”
“Teresa said he made her swear to never speak of the night of the fire,” I said, piecing it together. “Teresa said Evelyn saved me. Saved me from what? From the fire, or from him?”
Rafael finally looked at me. “Both. The official story was that a rival family burned down our summer house. My mother was trapped inside. They found her body. But they never found the baby.” He paused. “They never found you. My father tore the city apart looking for his infant daughter. He burned down three rival businesses in retaliation.”
“But you don't believe the official story,” I said.
“No,” Rafael said, setting his glass down. “Because three days before the fire, my mother told me she was leaving my father. And she told me she was taking the baby with her.”
The air in the room grew heavy. A chill ran down my arms.
“You think your father set the fire to stop her,” I whispered.
“I didn't want to believe it,” Rafael said, his voice breaking slightly. It was jarring to see this feared man so vulnerable. “But when they found her body… the doors to her room had been locked from the outside.”
Tears pricked my eyes. A mother I never knew, murdered because she tried to protect me. And Evelyn… Evelyn must have been the escape plan. Evelyn got me out, but my real mother couldn't make it.
“Where does Celeste fit into this?” I asked, remembering the ring. “Why did she look so afraid when I said Evelyn's name?”
Rafael’s phone suddenly buzzed on the marble counter. He looked at the screen, his expression tightening. He answered it on speaker.
“Rafael, darling,” Celeste’s smooth, cultured voice echoed through the cold kitchen. “I’m so glad you answered. Things got so heated at the party, I felt terrible.”
“Where is Teresa, Celeste?” Rafael asked, his tone icy.
“Oh, the poor old dear,” Celeste sighed. “She had a terrible fall in her room. My driver is taking her to the hospital right now. But honestly, Rafael, she’s so confused. She kept rambling about some old ring.”
Rafael gripped the edge of the counter. “If you hurt her—”
“Hurt her? Don't be dramatic,” Celeste laughed softly. “But Rafael, you should know… I visited your father tonight.”
Rafael froze. “You went to the medical wing.”
“He’s awake, darling. And his mind is remarkably clear tonight. I told him about the little maid claiming to be his long-lost daughter. I told him she had Evelyn Carter’s face.”
My breath caught.
“Do you know what your father said, Rafael?” Celeste’s voice dropped, losing its playful edge, turning completely venomous. “He said Evelyn Carter didn't kidnap the baby. He said Evelyn Carter was his mistress.”
The world tilted.
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“And that baby,” Celeste continued, her words slicing through the air like glass, “isn't your full sister, Rafael. She’s the bastard child your mother found out about. Your mother didn't try to run away with the baby. She tried to throw the baby in the fire.”
TITLE: The Mistress and the Masterpiece
