Chapter 3 - The Maid Who Knew Too Much
For the next three days, Sophie pretended nothing had changed.
She polished silver.
Changed flowers.
Prepared guest rooms.
Ignored the fact that Dante Romano seemed to appear wherever she happened to be working.
Breakfast room.
Library.
West hallway.
Wine cellar.
“You’re following me,” she finally said.
Dante stood in the doorway of the linen room.
“I live here.”
“You’ve never shown this much interest in towels.”
“I’ve developed a passion.”
“For Egyptian cotton?”
“Recently.”
Sophie folded a sheet.
“You’re terrible at pretending to be casual.”
“So are you.”
She looked at him.
Dante nodded toward her bag.
“You’re carrying the journal everywhere.”
“Yes.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“Leaving it alone seems more dangerous.”
“Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Sophie.”
“Still no.”
Dante stepped inside.
“You believe I’m trying to take it from you?”
“I believe everybody in this house suddenly cares very deeply about my father’s handwriting.”
His expression hardened slightly.
“You’re not safe if Vittorio knows what you have.”
“You don’t know he does.”
“Yes, I do.”
Sophie stopped folding.
“How?”
“Because yesterday someone entered your apartment.”
Her blood went cold.
“What?”
“I had someone watching the building.”
“You had someone watching my apartment?”
“Yes.”
“That is deeply creepy.”
“You’re welcome.”
Sophie stared at him.
“What did they take?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why—”
“They were interrupted.”
“By your person?”
Dante nodded.
Sophie sat down slowly.
Someone had entered her home.
Her small, ordinary apartment.
The place that had always felt separate from the Romano world.
Now it wasn’t.
Dante’s voice softened.
“You can’t stay there.”
“I’m not moving into your mansion.”
“You already spend ten hours a day here.”
“That is called employment.”
“There are guest suites.”
“No.”
“Sophie.”
“You say my name like it’s a legal argument.”
“It usually works.”
“Not today.”
Dante stared at her.
She stared back.
Finally, he sighed.
“You’re stubborn.”
“My father said it was one of my better qualities.”
“Your father and I may have disagreed.”
Despite herself, Sophie smiled.
It vanished quickly.
“What did the person look for?”
“The journal, most likely.”
Sophie touched her bag.
“Then we need to find out why.”
“We?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
She laughed.
“You’ve met me.”
“Unfortunately.”
“If somebody breaks into my apartment because of something my father knew, I’m involved.”
Dante’s jaw tightened.
“You’re a housekeeper.”
“And apparently the daughter of a dead man who helped move secret Romano documents inside wine crates.”
“That does complicate your résumé.”
“Exactly.”
Dante looked almost amused.
Then his face turned serious.
“There is one place we haven’t searched.”
“Where?”
“The old Bennett warehouse.”
Sophie frowned.
“It burned.”
“Partially.”
“The city condemned it.”
“The back storage cellar survived.”
“How do you know?”
“I checked.”
Sophie stared.
“You already went there?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone is watching you, they may be watching me too.”
“Then how do we go?”
Dante’s answer was simple.
“We don’t tell anyone.”
That night, Sophie discovered that sneaking out of a mafia boss’s mansion with the mafia boss was considerably less glamorous than movies suggested.
There was no dramatic sports car.
No helicopter.
Dante drove an ordinary black SUV.
“You own vehicles worth half a million dollars,” Sophie said.
“And this one blends in.”
“It looks like something a suburban father uses to transport soccer equipment.”
“That’s why nobody notices it.”
They reached the old warehouse after midnight.
The building stood near an abandoned industrial corridor.
Brick walls.
Broken windows.
A faded Bennett & Son Imports sign still visible above the entrance.
Sophie stopped outside.
Fifteen years disappeared.
She remembered standing across the street while firefighters fought flames.
She remembered her father holding her shoulder.
His face gray.
Everything we built is gone.
Three months later, he was gone too.
Dante watched her.
“We can leave.”
“No.”
“You don’t have to prove anything.”
“I’m not proving anything.”
She stepped forward.
“I’m finishing something.”
Inside, dust covered everything.
Old shelving leaned against scorched walls.
The smell of smoke had long vanished, yet Sophie imagined she could still detect it.
Dante used a flashlight.
They found the cellar door beneath broken shelving.
It took both of them to move it.
The stairs were narrow.
At the bottom sat rows of empty wooden racks.
Sophie ran her fingers across one.
“My father used to keep expensive shipments down here.”
Dante inspected the walls.
“Did he ever hide anything?”
“He hid Christmas presents badly.”
“That’s useful.”
“Your sarcasm is improving.”
They searched for nearly an hour.
Nothing.
Then Sophie noticed something strange.
One section of brick looked cleaner than the rest.
She tapped it.
Hollow.
“Dante.”
He joined her.
Together, they pulled away a loose wooden rack.
Behind it was a small metal panel.
No handle.
Only a keyhole.
Sophie stared.
“My father never told me about this.”
Dante crouched.
“Do you have any of his keys?”
Sophie’s hand moved automatically toward the necklace beneath her shirt.
She had worn it for fifteen years.
A small brass key.
Her father’s last gift.
He had given it to her two days before his death.
For luck, he had said.
She had always assumed it belonged to an old cabinet.
Sophie removed the necklace.
Dante looked at the key.
Neither spoke.
She inserted it.
Turned.
Click.
The panel opened.
Inside sat a narrow metal box.
Sophie’s hands trembled as she pulled it out.
The lock had rusted.
Dante forced it open.
Inside were documents wrapped in plastic.
A ledger.
Photographs.
Several cassette tapes.
And an envelope.
Sophie recognized the handwriting immediately.
For Sophie.
Her breath caught.
She opened it.
The paper inside had yellowed.
My beautiful girl,
If you are reading this, then I failed to keep you away from something dangerous.
Sophie stopped.
Dante stood silently beside her.
She continued.
I discovered that someone inside the Romano organization has been stealing money through the Bellini accounts and blaming Carlo Romano.
I thought Carlo was responsible at first.
I was wrong.
He is dangerous, but he is not the thief.
The man responsible knows I found proof.
I have hidden copies.
If anything happens to me, do not trust—
The page ended.
Torn.
Sophie stared.
“Where’s the rest?”
Dante searched the box.
Nothing.
She turned the letter over.
Blank.
“No.”
Dante picked up the ledger.
Opened it.
Rows of numbers.
Dates.
Initials.
Transfers.
Then he found something.
“Look.”
One set of initials repeated dozens of times.
V.R.
Sophie’s stomach tightened.
“Vittorio.”
“Maybe.”
“You know it is.”
Dante flipped through the pages.
Then stopped.
A second set of initials appeared.
C.R.
Sophie frowned.
“Carlo Romano.”
Dante’s face changed.
“No.”
“What?”
“My father’s middle name was Antonio.”
“So?”
“If he used initials, he signed C.A.R.”
Sophie looked at him.
“Then who is C.R.?”
Dante stared at the ledger.
A distant sound echoed upstairs.
A car door.
Then another.
Dante immediately shut off the flashlight.
Sophie whispered, “You said nobody knew we were coming.”
“They shouldn’t.”
Footsteps entered the warehouse.
More than one person.
Dante took Sophie’s hand.
They moved deeper into the cellar.
A beam of light swept down the stairs.
A male voice said:
“Check everything.”
Sophie’s heart hammered.
Another voice answered:
“And if Bennett’s daughter is here?”
The first man replied:
“Vittorio said she leaves with us.”
Sophie looked at Dante.
His expression became dangerously calm.
He leaned close enough that only she could hear him.
“Whatever happens, stay behind me.”
Then a third voice came from above.
A voice Sophie recognized immediately.
Not Vittorio.
Someone far more unexpected.
The Romano household manager.
Mr. Russo.
“Find the ledger,” he ordered.
May you like
“And make sure Dante never learns who C.R. really is.”
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