Chapter 12
Two weeks later, a heavy black town car rolled through the iron gates.
Uncle Salvatore Costello stepped out, leaning heavily on an ebony cane.
He was a frail-looking man in his seventies, but his eyes were sharp as broken glass.
Clara stood at the front entrance alongside Damian to greet him.
Salvatore stopped three feet away from them, his gaze darting from Damian to Clara.
“Is this the new accountant I’ve been hearing about on the encrypted wire?” Salvatore rasped, his voice like gravel in a tin can.
“This is Clara Hughes,” Damian introduced formally. “She saved my life two weeks ago and audited Arthur Kensington’s entire laundering ring in forty-eight hours.”
Salvatore grunted, leaning forward on his cane.
“Joanne Hughes’s girl?” Salvatore asked sharply.
Clara didn’t flinch. “Yes, Mr. Costello.”
Salvatore studied her face for a long, uncomfortable moment.
Then, a slow, toothy grin spread across his wrinkled face.
“Your mother had the sharpest mind in this city,” Salvatore declared, tapping his cane against the marble floor. “Glad to see she passed it down.”
He patted Clara’s shoulder firmly.
“Now, tell me the kitchens are still serving that pecan pie with the smoked sea salt, or I’m turning right back around to the airport.”
Damian laughed. “Chef Gerard baked three of them this morning.”
“Good,” Salvatore said, hobbling past them toward the dining hall. “Let’s eat before my ulcers act up.”
That evening, dinner was a relaxed, warm affair.
May you like
For the first time in its history, the Costello dining room echoed with genuine laughter rather than tense negotiations.
Salvatore praised Clara’s financial reports between bites of pecan pie, while Damian watched her from across the table with an expression he had never shown anyone before.
