Chapter 7 - The Lingering Shadow
By Tuesday afternoon, the disappearance of Donovan had rippled through the lower ranks of the syndicate with the subtle, terrifying speed of a subterranean earthquake.
No one asked questions out loud. In the Cross organization, asking about a vanishing capo was considered a suicidal career move. The official company line, whispered among the nervous guards in the breakroom, was that Donovan had embezzled funds from the eastern shipping lanes and fled to South America to escape an internal audit.
Fay stayed locked on the fourth floor for three full days.
Vincent ensured she was well-fed, providing meals sent up directly from the private kitchens, accompanied by medical-grade ice packs and specialized anti-inflammatory creams that reduced the swelling on her jaw by half within forty-eight hours. He visited her twice each evening—not for long, but long enough to sit by the window, drink a glass of scotch, and listen quietly while Fay talked about her mother’s treatments, her law textbooks, and the small, ordinary life she had left behind in Queens before the financial crash forced her into the underworld.
It felt surreal.
The most feared man in New York—a man whose word dictated the fate of shipping ports and municipal elections—was sitting in an emerald-draped velvet chair, listening attentively to a twenty-four-year-old maid explain the nuances of civil litigation.
On the fourth morning, the lock finally clicked open.
Fay stepped out into the fourth-floor hallway, wearing a fresh, clean gray maid’s uniform that had been left outside her door with a note written in Vincent’s sharp, slashing handwriting: If you insist on working, do it where I can see you.
She took a deep breath, smoothing the front of her apron, and made her way down the grand staircase toward the main administrative offices.
The estate was humming with a tense, fragile normalcy. Guards stood at their posts along the corridors, nodding respectfully as she passed—a stark contrast to the old days when they looked through her as if she were made of glass. Word had clearly filtered down through the security ranks that the girl from the fourth floor was under direct protection from the boss himself.
She found the head housekeeper, Mrs. Gable, standing in the linen room inventorying stacks of Egyptian cotton sheets.
Mrs. Gable looked up, her severe expression softening just a fraction as she took in the fading purple bruise on Fay’s jaw.
“You’re back,” Mrs. Gable stated, her voice dry as parchment.
“Yes, Mrs. Gable,” Fay replied steadily. “I’m ready to resume my duties.”
The older woman walked over, holding a clipboard against her chest, and studied Fay for a long moment. “The boss gave specific instructions regarding your schedule. No more night shifts. No more clearing the eastern corridor after eight o’clock. You are assigned exclusively to the private family quarters and the master wing.”
Fay blinked in surprise. “Exclusively?”
“You report directly to Mr. Cross’s private study at eight every morning,” Mrs. Gable added, turning back to her inventory. “And Fay?”
“Yes?”
May you like
“Don’t drop the crystal.”
A small, genuine smile touched the corner of Fay’s lips for the first time in a week. “I won't.”
