Chapter 3 - A Past Buried in Concrete
While Victor Vance tore through digital footprints and municipal registries across the city, Rosalind Marsh took a different approach. As the household’s maternal anchor, she understood that Elena would never crack under interrogation or threats. The girl’s walls were built of absolute survival instinct.
At ten-thirty, Rosalind appeared in the ground-floor linen room where Elena was folding pristine white sheets. The small room smelled of lavender and bleach, a sterile sanctuary away from the opulence of the upper floors.
Elena jumped as the door clicked shut, dropping a pillowcase onto the folding table.
“Easy, child,” Rosalind said gently, pulling up a wooden stool and sitting down without waiting for an invitation. “It’s just me.”
“I’m behind on the west wing linens, Ms. Marsh,” Elena stammered, her fingers nervously smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the cotton. “I’ll have them up in ten minutes—”
“Stop working, Elena.” Rosalind’s voice was firm, but her eyes held a profound, aching kindness. “Sit down.”
Elena sank onto the edge of the laundry basket, her shoulders trembling slightly. “Mr. Reyes... does he want to let me go? I understand if he does. I know how this looks. But I swear I didn’t steal anything valuable, I just—”
“He knows you didn’t steal the ledger yourself,” Rosalind interrupted softly.
Elena froze. The color drained from her face entirely, leaving her looking translucent against the white sheets. “He... he knows?”
“He saw the notifications on your phone, Elena. He knows about Marcus.”
For a second, Elena looked like she might pass out. Her breath hitched, and she grabbed the edge of the folding table so hard her knuckles turned white. “He’s going to kill me,” she whispered, the words escaping like a dying breath. “If Marcus thinks Mr. Reyes knows—if he thinks I talked—”
“Marcus isn’t going to touch you while you’re inside this estate,” Rosalind said, leaning forward and placing a warm, wrinkled hand over Elena’s ice-cold fingers. “You don’t know Damian. People think he’s made of ice because of the way he runs his businesses. But nobody hurts people under his roof. Nobody.”
“You don’t know what Marcus is capable of,” Elena cried out, a sob finally breaking through her barricade of silence. Tears spilled over her lashes, tracking hot paths down her cheeks. “He doesn’t just beat people, Ms. Marsh. He destroys lives. He has my brother.”
The revelation hit the small room like a physical blow. Rosalind’s hand tightened over Elena’s.
“Your brother?”
“Leo,” Elena whispered, looking around the room as if listening for invisible footsteps. “He got mixed up with some online gambling debts last winter. Heavy loans—sharks operating out of the South Side. I tried to pay them off, but the interest kept multiplying. Then Marcus stepped in. He said he’d wipe the slate clean if I got a job inside the Reyes estate and photographed the real estate acquisition files.”
“And you did it,” Rosalind said, not with judgment, but with heavy sorrow.
“I had to! They sent me a video of Leo tied to a chair in an abandoned warehouse on Ashland Avenue. They broke his collarbone, Ms. Marsh. They told me every day I delayed, they’d take another piece of him.” Elena pulled back her sleeves, exposing the purple and green rings around her wrists to the harsh fluorescent light. “This was from last Tuesday. I tried to push back when they asked for the second folder. Marcus grabbed me in the alley behind my apartment building.”
Rosalind’s jaw tightened. The maternal warmth in her eyes hardened into pure steel. “Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“The police?” Elena let out a bitter, fractured laugh. “Marcus owns half the precinct in the Ninth District. Half the officers on patrol are on his payroll. If I walked into a station, I’d be dropped off back at his doorstep before midnight.”
“You should have come to Damian on day one,” Rosalind said quietly.
“And risked dragging him into a war? Mr. Reyes is powerful, but Marcus isn’t working alone. There’s someone backing him—someone inside the city council who wants those real estate files destroyed or leaked before the vote next month.”
Before Rosalind could answer, the heavy wooden door of the linen room swung open.
Damian stood in the doorway. His expression was unreadable, but the heavy silence hanging around him carried the weight of an oncoming storm. He had heard every word.
“He has your brother?” Damian asked, his voice dangerously low.
May you like
Elena scrambled off her stool, her eyes wide with sheer terror. “Mr. Reyes... I didn’t mean to bring this into your home. I’ll leave right now, I swear, just please don’t let Marcus—”
“Elena,” Damian interrupted, taking two slow steps into the room. He stopped six feet away, respecting her invisible boundary, but his eyes locked onto hers with absolute, terrifying authority. “Your brother’s name is Leo. Where is he being held?”
