Chapter 2 - The Shadows Behind the Marble
The silence between Roman and Clara was broken by the sharp click of leather shoes against the marble.
Marcus Vance approached them with rapid, calculated strides.
His tailored silver vest gleamed under the chandeliers, but his forehead glistened with an unnatural layer of sweat.
“Mister DeLuca, forgive the interruption,” Marcus said, placing himself smoothly between Roman and the kneeling girl.
His voice sounded cheerful to the casual observer, but a razor-sharp edge lurked beneath the pleasant tone.
“Our investors from London have just arrived in the conservatory,” Marcus continued without waiting for a reply.
“They are eager to review the final maritime logistics contracts before the midnight toast.”
Roman did not look away from Clara’s face immediately.
His jaw remained tight, a muscle ticking beside his ear.
“The investors can wait five minutes, Marcus,” Roman replied, his voice flat and unyielding.
Marcus’s smile tightened into a brittle mask of forced cordiality.
“Of course, sir, but perhaps estate security should handle this unfortunate mess first.”
Marcus gestured subtly to two burly men standing near the velvet-draped entrance.
“A clumsy server spilling vintage wine on our most prominent guests is hardly an executive concern.”
Clara felt the temperature around her drop by ten degrees.
Marcus Vance looked down at her, and his eyes were as cold as polished obsidian.
There was no trace of the panic Clara had seen across the ballroom just moments before.
Now, his gaze was clinical, calculating, and unmistakably threatening.
“Stand up, young lady,” Marcus commanded in a hushed, stern whisper.
Clara rose quickly, holding her bleeding arm against her waist.
“Go to the pantry through the service hallway,” Marcus ordered, stepping closer to crowd her space.
“Head of security will take your statement and your badge.”
“You are dismissed from tonight’s service permanently.”
Clara’s stomach dropped at the thought of losing her service agency contract.
This catering job paid for her modest apartment and her mother’s outstanding medical debts.
“Mister Vance, please,” Clara began, trying to keep her voice from shaking.
“I will pay for the broken stemware out of my weekly wages.”
“It is not about the glass, girl,” Marcus whispered, his teeth clenched in a sickening grin.
“It is about knowing your place in this house.”
“Leave now, or I will ensure your agency never works in this city again.”
Clara turned toward the narrow service door, feeling the heavy stares of the wealthy patrons burning into her back.
She took two hurried steps into the dim, carpeted corridor behind the grand dining room.
The heavy oak door swung shut behind her, cutting off the orchestra’s music into a muffled hum.
Clara leaned against the cold wallpaper, her hands shaking uncontrollably as she looked at her cut wrist.
She pulled an old silver locket from beneath the collar of her white uniform shirt.
Inside the locket was a faded miniature portrait of her mother holding a newborn baby.
Beside the locket hung a tiny, tarnished key made of heavy brass.
Her mother had placed that key around Clara’s neck on the night she died.
Sarah had told her that the key belonged to a lockbox hidden inside the DeLuca summer residence.
She had warned Clara that opening it would bring either justice or death.
Clara had taken this catering assignment solely to earn rent, never intending to confront the ghosts of the past.
Suddenly, the service door behind her swung open with tremendous force.
Clara gasped, pressing herself deeper into the shadowy alcove of the back hallway.
She expected to see the security guards coming to escort her out into the cold rain.
Instead, a tall silhouette filled the doorway, blocking the golden light from the ballroom.
Roman DeLuca walked into the private corridor, his long coat swaying around his calves.
He closed the heavy door firmly, locking the brass latch with a decisive click.
Marcus Vance rushed up behind the door, pounding his knuckles against the wood.
“Roman! Open this door immediately! The board members are waiting!” Marcus shouted from the other side.
Roman ignored the frantic banging completely.
He turned his piercing gaze down the dim hallway until he spotted Clara standing in the alcove.
“You are not leaving this property until you answer my questions,” Roman said quietly.
He walked toward her, each step steady, measured, and deliberate.
Clara backed away until her shoulders hit the corner of the wood paneling.
“I didn’t mean to cause any trouble, sir,” Clara said, her voice trembling.
“I only repeated what my mother used to say when she was sick.”
Roman stopped three feet away from her, towering over her in the narrow corridor.
“You called me Daniel,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of anger.
“No one on this estate has ever spoken that name in my presence.”
“My father died six years ago, and his will named me Roman DeLuca.”
“My birth certificate says Roman DeLuca.”
“My medical files say Roman DeLuca.”
Roman reached up, his long fingers touching the small crescent scar above his left eyebrow.
“So tell me, Clara Hayes, why did your mother look at this face and call me Daniel?”
Clara stared at his hand, noticing for the first time the slight tremor in his long fingers.
May you like
The master of the DeLuca empire was not angry with her.
He was terrified of the empty spaces inside his own mind.
