Chapter 6 - Morning on the Fourth Floor
Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the fourth-floor suite, painting warm gold patterns across the Persian rug and chasing away the chill of the night.
Fay woke with a start.
She sat up abruptly in the massive emerald-draped bed, her heart hammering against her ribs before she remembered where she was. The panic receded slowly, replaced by a dull, throbbing ache in her jaw. She raised a hand to her face; the skin was hot to the touch, and the bruising had darkened into a deep, ugly plum color, but the initial sharp agony had settled into a heavy, continuous throb.
She threw off the heavy duvet and stood up, walking cautiously to the bathroom.
The reflection in the mirror was alarming. She looked like she had gone ten rounds in a professional boxing ring. There was no way she could put on a uniform, walk down to the main kitchens, and pretend nothing had happened. The house manager would spot her in a second, security would flag her for a wellness check, and the delicate, fragile ecosystem of her life would collapse like a house of cards.
I need to leave, she thought, panic coiling tightly in her chest. I need to grab my bag from the staff quarters, slip out the service entrance, and figure out how to pay for Mom’s treatments somewhere else.
She turned the handle of the suite’s main door and pulled.
It didn't budge.
Fay frowned, throwing her weight against the heavy oak.
Locked from the outside.
“Open the door!” she muttered, rattling the brass handle in frustration. “Let me out!”
“I wouldn't recommend that.”
Fay spun around.
Vincent Cross stood leaning against the doorframe of the adjoining master bedroom. He had already showered and changed. He wore a crisp, tailored navy suit with a silver silk tie, his dark hair neatly combed back, looking as immaculate and unbothered as if he hadn't spent the previous night executing a capo in a sub-basement torture vault.
He held a silver tray with a steaming ceramic cup of black coffee and a small plate of fresh pastries.
“You locked me in,” Fay said, her voice trembling slightly as she gripped the edge of the doorframe.
“I secured you,” Vincent corrected calmly, walking toward a small sitting table by the window and placing the tray down. “The estate is... unsettled this morning. Transition periods in logistics always cause a certain amount of noise. It is best if you remain out of sight.”
“Transition periods?” Fay echoed, her eyes narrowing. “Is that what you call murdering one of your own capos in the basement?”
Vincent stopped. He turned slowly, his dark eyes fixing on her with an unreadable expression. He didn't deny it. He didn't even look surprised that she knew.
“Donovan is no longer with us,” Vincent said simply, pulling out a chair and sitting down. He picked up his coffee cup. “His logistics portfolio has already been reassigned to a more competent administrator. The docks are running on schedule. There is no disruption.”
“You killed him,” Fay whispered, the horrific reality of the mafia world crashing down over her like a freezing wave. “Over a bruise. Over a maid.”
“I corrected an error,” Vincent replied, his voice dropping into that quiet, absolute tone that brook no argument. “And as for what you are, Fay—you need to stop defining yourself by the uniform you wear. In this house, you are whatever I say you are. And right now, you are the only person in this building who told me the absolute truth last night.”
He gestured toward the chair opposite him.
“Sit down. Drink your coffee. Eat something. Your jaw is going to need fuel to heal properly.”
Fay stood rooted to the spot, her chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Every instinct she possessed told her to run, to flee this gilded cage, to get as far away from the dark, beautiful monster sitting across the room as humanly possible.
Yet, as she looked at him—really looked at him—she saw something she had never noticed in the three years she had scrubbed his floors.
May you like
Beneath the terrifying power, beneath the blood on his hands and the ruthless efficiency of his syndicate, Vincent Cross was entirely alone.
And for the first time since her mother’s diagnosis, Fay realized she wasn't the only ghost in the house anymore.
