Chapter 5 - Behind the Locked Mansion Doors
At four fifteen, Griffin told me we were leaving the townhouse.
I refused.
Not because I wanted to stay.
Because I was tired of being moved around like an important package.
"Where are we going this time?"
"Somewhere with better security."
"And a better explanation, hopefully."
"That's the intention."
Sarah sat beside me, wrapped in a blanket.
"Grace, just go. I'm going home to my sister's apartment. Marco said he'll arrange protection."
I turned toward her.
"You're not disappearing on me."
"I'm not."
She squeezed my hand.
"You're going to need someone outside your mysterious Mafia adventure who still knows how to file a motion."
Despite everything, I laughed.
Twenty minutes later, I was back inside the black sedan.
This time, Griffin sat beside me with his injured arm properly bandaged.
The snow had slowed, leaving Manhattan strangely quiet beneath the streetlights.
"Where are we going?" I asked again.
"My home."
I turned.
"Your home?"
"Yes."
"Don't you have a hotel?"
"Apparently, those haven't been working out for you."
I glared at him.
He almost smiled.
The Castellano estate stood behind high stone walls on a secluded property north of the city.
The gates opened before we arrived.
A long driveway curved through snow-covered trees toward an enormous Italian-style mansion.
Warm lights glowed behind tall windows.
It was the kind of house people photographed for architecture magazines.
It was also the kind of house I would normally assume contained at least three questionable tax arrangements.
Inside, a silver-haired woman greeted us.
"Griffin."
Her expression immediately changed when she saw his bandage.
"Madonna mia. Again?"
"Good morning, Rosa."
"Don't good-morning me. You look terrible."
"This is Grace Holloway."
Rosa turned toward me.
Her stern expression softened.
"Poor girl. Come inside. You must be freezing."
Before I could object, she took my coat and guided me toward a sitting room.
"I'll make tea."
"Thank you."
"Something stronger?"
I considered my circumstances.
"Do you have an entire bottle?"
Rosa laughed.
Griffin looked amused.
For the first time all night, I felt almost human.
Then I noticed a framed photograph on the mantel.
Two young men stood beside an older gentleman in front of the mansion.
One was unmistakably Griffin, although younger and smiling.
The other had lighter hair and a narrower face.
Adrian.
Their father stood between them.
Thomas Castellano.
I picked up the frame.
Griffin approached quietly.
"That was taken a week before he died."
"He looks happy."
"He was."
"What were you like back then?"
"Less patient."
I raised an eyebrow.
"That's difficult to imagine."
He glanced at the photograph.
"I believed I could fix everything."
"And now?"
"Now I know some things can only be survived."
His answer stayed with me.
Rosa eventually showed me upstairs.
My bedroom was larger than my entire Manhattan apartment.
There was a fireplace, an enormous bed, and French doors overlooking the garden.
A suitcase stood beside the wardrobe.
I frowned.
"What's this?"
"Clothes," Rosa said. "Mr. Castellano asked me to arrange them."
"Of course he did."
She smiled.
"He's not accustomed to guests."
"Does he often rescue women from airports?"
"Never."
I turned.
"Never?"
Rosa folded a blanket at the foot of the bed.
"I've worked for this family for thirty-one years, Miss Holloway. Mr. Griffin has brought business associates here. Friends, occasionally."
She glanced at me.
"But never a woman he personally escorted through the front door."
I felt my cheeks warm.
"That doesn't mean anything."
"Of course."
She left with an expression suggesting she didn't believe a word.
I showered, changed into a borrowed sweater and comfortable trousers, then tried to sleep.
It was impossible.
At six thirty, I wandered downstairs.
Voices came from Griffin's study.
I stopped outside the partially open door.
"Adrian knows she has the photograph," Marco said.
"How?"
"We haven't confirmed the leak."
"Find it."
"And the woman?"
"Grace stays here until I can guarantee her safety."
"Boss, your brother won't tolerate this."
Griffin's voice turned cold.
"My brother stopped having a vote in my decisions the moment he targeted an innocent woman."
Marco hesitated.
"Even if protecting her costs you everything?"
A long silence.
Then Griffin answered.
"Especially then."
My breath caught.
I stepped away before they noticed me.
But as I crossed the hallway, another voice spoke.
"Miss Holloway?"
A young housekeeper stood beside the stairs.
"Yes?"
She held out a folded piece of paper.
"A courier delivered this for you."
I frowned.
"Who?"
"He didn't say."
I opened the note.
There were only seven words.
ASK GRIFFIN WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR FATHER.
My heart stopped.
My father, Robert Holloway, had died when I was sixteen.
A highway accident.
A drunk driver.
A tragedy that had shaped the rest of my life.
I stared at the handwriting.
Then I turned toward Griffin's study.
May you like
Because I had never told him my father was dead.
And I had certainly never told him how.
