Chapter 1 - The Voice in the Library
Beatrice Hayes had been given three rules on her first morning at the Costello estate.
Never enter the west security wing.
Never touch the locked liquor cabinet.
And under absolutely no circumstances enter Damian Costello’s private suite unless he summoned her personally. nd51
For six months, she obeyed all three.
Beatrice had discovered long ago that wealthy people loved rules. The richer they were, the more rules they seemed to have, and Damian Costello possessed enough money to make his mansion feel like a country with its own laws.
She never complained.
The job paid better than anything she had held before. She had a private room in the servants’ quarters, three meals a day, and enough money left over each month to slowly rebuild the life that had collapsed after her mother died.
More importantly, nobody at the Costello estate asked many questions.
That suited Bea perfectly.
She cleaned.
She polished.
She carried fresh flowers into rooms larger than the apartment where she had grown up.
And whenever Damian Costello passed her in one of the marble corridors, she lowered her eyes and stepped aside.
Everyone did.
Damian was thirty-two, though sometimes he seemed older.
There was something about the way silence followed him.
He never needed to shout.
He never needed to threaten.
A room simply changed when Damian entered it.
Conversations shortened. Backs straightened. Men twice Bea’s size suddenly remembered appointments somewhere else.
Chicago newspapers occasionally printed photographs of him leaving restaurants, charity galas, or court buildings. They called him a businessman, an investor, the heir to the Costello fortune.
The people inside his estate used fewer words.
Boss.
That was usually enough.
Beatrice had learned not to wonder what happened behind the doors she was forbidden to open.
Until Thursday night.
The storm began shortly after nine.
By ten, rain was striking the enormous windows hard enough to sound like handfuls of gravel.
At eleven fifteen, Beatrice was alone in the third-floor library.
She stood on a small wooden stool, running a cloth along the upper shelves while lightning illuminated hundreds of leather-bound books.
Most of the household staff had already retired.
Damian was away.
According to something Bea had overheard in the kitchen, there was trouble at the docks.
That meant the mansion should have been unusually quiet.
Instead, footsteps approached.
Bea recognized them.
Richard Lawson.
She had met Richard during her first week.
Damian’s oldest lieutenant had smiled at her and remembered her name immediately.
That had surprised her.
Most of Damian’s associates treated the household staff like furniture.
Richard didn't.
He was almost fifty, always perfectly dressed, with silver beginning to show at his temples. He spoke softly, tipped generously, and had served the Costello family for nearly fifteen years.
More importantly, Damian trusted him.
Everybody knew that.
Richard entered the corridor outside the library.
Bea continued dusting.
Then she heard his voice.
“The cameras on the southern perimeter will be down at eleven forty-five.”
Her hand stopped.
Something about his tone made her remain completely still.
There was a pause.
Richard was speaking on the phone.
“The shipment distraction is already in place. Costello thinks tonight’s threat is at the docks.”
Lightning turned the windows white.
Bea slowly lowered her cloth.
She should leave.
Every instinct told her to leave.
But doing so meant walking directly past Richard.
She remained on the stool.
Another pause.
Then Richard spoke again.
“He returns after midnight. You’ll have twenty minutes.”
Bea felt the first cold movement of fear through her stomach.
Maybe she misunderstood.
Maybe this was security business.
Maybe—
“No mistakes this time,” Richard said. “The first shot kills him.”
The cloth slipped from Bea’s fingers.
She caught it against the bookshelf before it fell.
Her heart began hammering.
Damian.
Richard was talking about Damian.
His own boss.
The man who trusted him.
The man whose family he had served for fifteen years.
Bea stared toward the open library doorway.
Richard stood less than ten feet away.
If she could hear him, he could hear her.
She barely breathed.
Then his next words changed everything again.
“And Clara remains useful until I say otherwise.”
Bea frowned.
Clara?
She knew that name.
Everybody in the Costello household knew it.
Clara Costello.
Damian’s younger sister.
Dead for five years.
There was a portrait of her downstairs that nobody touched.
Bea had once accidentally asked another maid who the beautiful dark-haired woman was.
The maid had immediately gone pale.
“His sister.”
“What happened?”
“Don't ask.”
Later Bea had learned fragments.
Clara had disappeared during the Costello war with the Pendleton family.
She had supposedly been murdered.
No body had ever been publicly recovered.
Damian had retaliated.
People still whispered about the violence that followed.
Now Richard was talking about Clara as if she were alive.
Bea pressed one hand against the shelf to steady herself.
Richard continued.
“The Costello family spent five years believing the Pendletons murdered her. That lie bought us an entire war.”
Beatrice forgot to breathe.
Clara was alive.
Richard knew it.
And if what he had just said was true, Damian had spent five years punishing people for a murder that had never happened.
This was no longer merely an assassination.
It was something that had been building for years.
Bea needed to get away.
She carefully shifted her foot toward the edge of the stool.
The old wood creaked.
Richard stopped talking.
Silence filled the corridor.
Bea froze.
A second passed.
Then two.
The storm seemed suddenly deafening.
Richard ended the call.
Footsteps moved toward the library.
Bea climbed down.
“Who’s there?”
She looked around.
There was nowhere to hide.
A reading table.
Two chairs.
Bookshelves.
Tall windows that opened onto a three-story drop.
Richard's shadow crossed the doorway.
Bea backed into the corridor through the library's second entrance.
One door stood nearby.
Her stomach dropped when she recognized it.
Damian Costello’s private suite.
Rule number three.
Never enter unless summoned personally.
Richard's footsteps came closer.
Beatrice grabbed the handle.
Unlocked.
She slipped inside.
The door closed behind her.
She turned the lock.
Three seconds later, Richard tried the handle.
Bea covered her mouth.
The handle moved again.
Then stopped.
“Beatrice?”
Her blood went cold.
He knew.
Of course he knew.
He had probably seen her cleaning cart.
“Open the door.”
Beatrice said nothing.
“Bea.”
His voice had changed.
The friendly warmth was gone.
“You shouldn't be in there.”
Neither should you be planning to murder your boss, she thought.
But she didn't say it.
She backed deeper into Damian's bedroom.
She had never seen it before.
It was enormous.
Black marble.
Gold detailing.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Lake Michigan.
Rain streamed across the glass while lightning illuminated dark water beyond the estate.
An enormous upholstered bed dominated one side of the room.
A lamp glowed beside it.
On another wall stood a desk.
And on the desk—
Bea stopped.
An open folder.
She shouldn't have looked.
But red markings across a security diagram immediately caught her attention.
Southern perimeter.
The exact words Richard had used.
She moved closer.
Dates.
Times.
Camera locations.
Vehicle schedules.
Then she saw handwriting she recognized.
Richard’s.
Bea had seen it countless times on household instructions.
There was no mistake.
This was evidence.
A silver flash drive rested beside the folder.
Richard tried the door again.
“Open it.”
Beatrice grabbed the folder.
Then the drive.
“What are you doing in there?”
She didn't answer.
The handle jerked violently.
“Open this door.”
“No.”
The word escaped before she could stop it.
Silence.
Then Richard laughed softly.
It frightened her more than shouting would have.
“Do you know what happens to maids who steal from Damian Costello?”
Bea stared at the door.
Richard continued.
“You heard something you misunderstood. Give me whatever you took and go downstairs. I'll forget this happened.”
She almost laughed.
Instead she tightened her grip around the flash drive.
“You're lying.”
Another silence.
When Richard spoke again, there was no kindness left.
“You don't know these people, Beatrice.”
“I know enough.”
“No. You don't.”
She looked around for another exit.
Nothing.
“Damian Costello isn't your friend,” Richard said through the door. “If he finds you inside his bedroom with confidential documents, what exactly do you think he's going to believe?”
That stopped her.
Because Richard was right about one thing.
Damian didn't know her.
Not really.
She was an employee.
A maid.
Someone he occasionally passed in a corridor.
If he returned and discovered her inside his forbidden private suite holding stolen security files, would he listen long enough for her to explain?
Or would Richard reach him first?
“He'll kill you before you finish your first sentence,” Richard said.
Bea looked toward the huge bed.
Maybe Damian would.
She didn't know.
But Damian wasn't hunting her tonight.
Richard was.
Another hard impact shook the door.
Beatrice moved.
She crossed the room and climbed onto the bed.
It was ridiculous.
Childish.
There was nowhere else to hide.
She lifted one of the enormous pillows and pushed the security papers beneath it.
Then the flash drive.
If Richard somehow entered, maybe he wouldn't find them immediately.
Bea pulled the duvet over herself.
Her entire body trembled.
She waited.
Five minutes.
Then ten.
Richard didn't break down the door.
Eventually she heard footsteps retreat.
But she didn't trust them.
Rain hammered the windows.
Her breathing slowly steadied.
She had awakened before sunrise.
She had skipped lunch because another maid had called in sick.
She had spent sixteen hours working.
Now adrenaline began draining from her body, leaving exhaustion behind.
The bed was warm.
Too warm.
Her eyelids grew heavy.
No.
She needed to stay awake.
She needed to find Damian.
She needed to tell him—
Her eyes closed.
Only for a second, she promised herself.
Only until she heard Richard leave the floor.
Her fingers remained curled around the edge of the duvet.
Thunder rolled across the lake.
And Beatrice Hayes fell asleep in the bed of the most feared man in Chicago.
Ninety minutes earlier than anyone expected, a black car passed through the Costello estate gates.
Damian sat in the rear seat.
His jacket was damp.
His expression was unreadable.
The threat at the docks had been false.
Nothing had happened.
No attack.
No missing shipment.
No rival crew.
Nothing.
And Damian Costello hated coincidences.
His driver glanced at him through the mirror.
“Boss?”
“Call Richard.”
“He isn't answering.”
Damian looked toward the mansion.
Every instinct sharpened.
“Stop the car.”
The vehicle stopped beneath the covered entrance.
Damian stepped out.
Two guards approached.
“Anything unusual?”
“No, sir.”
“Southern cameras?”
One guard hesitated.
“They went offline twenty minutes ago.”
Damian stared at him.
“Why?”
“We're checking.”
Damian drew his handgun.
The guards immediately became alert.
He entered the mansion without another word.
Something was wrong.
He could feel it.
The silence.
The cameras.
Richard's unanswered phone.
The false emergency.
Damian climbed the staircase.
Second floor.
Third.
He noticed a cleaning cart near the library.
Abandoned.
A dust cloth lay on the floor.
He crouched.
Picked it up.
Then looked toward his bedroom.
The door was locked.
From inside.
His expression changed.
Nobody locked that door.
Nobody entered that room.
He moved forward.
The spare key was concealed behind a panel in the hallway.
He retrieved it.
Unlocked the door.
Entered with his gun raised.
Nothing moved.
Lightning flashed.
Then Damian saw the bed.
Someone was beneath his blankets.
His weapon lifted instinctively.
He crossed the room without making a sound.
One step.
Two.
Three.
A strand of blonde hair lay across his pillow.
He stopped.
Beatrice Hayes.
His maid.
Asleep.
In his bed.
Damian stared at her for several seconds, genuinely unable to understand what he was seeing.
Then he noticed something else.
A corner of yellow paper beneath her arm.
His eyes narrowed.
“Beatrice?”
Her eyes opened.
For one confused second, she looked directly at him without recognition.
Then she saw the gun.
She gasped and scrambled backward.
Damian lowered the weapon slightly.
“What are you doing in my bed?”
Beatrice stared at him.
Fear flooded her face.
But not fear of him.
She looked past him.
Toward the door.
Then back into his eyes.
Her voice came out as a whisper.
“Someone is going to kill you.”
Damian didn't move.
“Who?”
Beatrice reached beneath his pillow.
His gun rose again.
“Slowly.”
Her hand stopped.
“Please.”
“What is under my pillow?”
“The reason I'm still alive.”
She slowly pulled out a silver flash drive.
Damian recognized it.
His expression hardened.
Then she pulled out the security diagrams.
He took them.
One glance was enough.
Southern perimeter.
Camera shutdown.
His schedule.
His routes.
His bedroom.
Richard Lawson's handwriting.
Damian became perfectly still.
A knock sounded at the door.
Beatrice's face turned white.
“Damian?” Richard called from the corridor. “We need to talk.”
Beatrice grabbed Damian's sleeve.
Her fingers shook violently.
Damian looked down at them.
Then at her.
“That's him,” she whispered.
Richard knocked again.
“Damian?”
Beatrice swallowed.
“I heard him planning your murder.”
Damian slowly looked toward the door.
For fifteen years, Richard Lawson had stood beside him.
At his father's funeral.
At Clara's memorial.
Through every war.
Every betrayal.
Every death.
Damian looked back at Bea.
“There’s something else,” she whispered.
“What?”
Tears appeared in her eyes.
“I heard him talking about your sister.”
Damian's expression changed.
“What about Clara?”
Beatrice hesitated.
The door handle began to turn.
She forced the words out.
“He said she's alive.”
For the first time since Beatrice had known him, Damian Costello looked genuinely shaken.
Outside the room, Richard stopped knocking.
And then came the unmistakable metallic sound of a gun being prepared on the other side of the door.
Damian looked at Beatrice.
Beatrice looked at him.
Neither spoke.
Because both of them understood the same thing.
May you like
Whatever had begun five years earlier had finally reached Damian's bedroom.
And this time, Richard intended to make certain nobody survived long enough to reveal the truth.
