Chapter 2 - The Value of an Unwanted Daughter
The library fell into a stunned, suffocating silence so profound that the crackle of burning cedar sounded like artillery fire.
Gemma let out an involuntary, hysterical laugh, clutching her throat with her diamond-ringed hand.
“What did you just say?” she gasped, her face drained of all color.
My father blinked repeatedly, looking between Jarro and me as if the crime boss had suddenly spoken in ancient Greek.
“Lydia?” my father stammered, his voice cracking with utter disbelief.
“Bruno, you can't be serious—she’s an accountant!”
“She is fat, plain, and spends her life hiding behind computer monitors!” Gemma shrieked, pointing an accusatory crimson nail at me.
“You came to this house for an alliance of power and beauty, and you are choosing her over me?”
Jarro Bruno slowly turned his head toward Gemma.
The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees in a single heartbeat.
“I came here to recover stolen wealth and expose treason,” Jarro said, his voice terrifyingly quiet.
“I have plenty of empty ornaments decorating my properties; what I lack is operational intellect.”
The insult struck Gemma like an open-handed slap across the mouth.
Her sculpted jaw trembled, her pride crumbling into raw, ugly humiliation.
“She’s disgusting!” Gemma hissed, losing all society composure.
Jarro took a single, deliberate step toward her.
The sheer physical menace radiating from his massive frame made Gemma stagger backward until her spine hit the mahogany liquor cabinet.
“If another word about her appearance leaves your mouth,” Jarro warned, his tone flat and merciless, “this negotiation ends, and my men begin clearing the house room by room.”
Gemma slapped her hands over her lips, trembling violently, tears of rage finally spilling down her powdered cheeks.
I stood there, feeling an intoxicating rush of vindication surge through my veins.
For fifteen years, my sister had weaponized my weight and my quiet demeanor to reduce me to domestic servitude.
In less than ten minutes, this ruthless syndicate boss had dismantled her entire illusion of supremacy.
Jarro turned his towering frame back toward me, extending his right hand.
“Pack your laptop, Lydia. You’re coming with me to my high-rise downtown.”
I crossed my arms over my chest and didn't move an inch.
“No.”
Dante, his lead lieutenant standing by the door, instinctively reached for his sidearm.
My father nearly fell out of his chair in utter horror.
“Lydia, are you out of your mind? Do as he says!”
“Be quiet, Dad,” I snapped without looking at him.
It was the first time in thirty-two years I had ever raised my voice to my father, and the sensation was pure adrenaline.
Jarro Bruno didn't reach for his gun; instead, his dark eyes flared with intrigued amusement.
“You’re telling me no?”
“I am telling you that I am not a sack of grain to be traded between two men who failed at business,” I said, meeting his intense gaze head-on.
“My father tried to pawn off Gemma to save his neck, and now you expect to drag me out into the snow like collateral.”
“I am neither collateral nor property.”
Jarro lowered his hand, his head tilting slightly as he analyzed me.
“Name your terms, Miss Caruso.”
“Seventy-two hours of unhindered access to your private financial servers,” I stated clearly.
“Granted.”
“My own secured suite in your residence with an interior deadbolt that only I control.”
“Granted.”
“A dedicated high-speed fiber-optic terminal and unrestricted clearance to interview your treasury staff.”
“Granted.”
“And most importantly,” I said, taking a step toward him, “no physical contact, no marriage coercion, no public announcements, and no hands on my body unless I explicitly give my consent.”
Gemma made a strangled, choking sound from the corner of the room, clutching the liquor cabinet for balance.
She couldn't fathom that the sister she considered worthless was drafting terms of engagement with a man who killed for sport.
Jarro Bruno looked at me for a long, silent moment, his scarred face unreadable.
Then, slowly, the tension in his broad shoulders eased.
“You have my word as head of the Bruno family,” he answered solemnly.
“If anyone touches you without your permission—including me—they lose the hand.”
My father looked like he wanted to crawl under the Persian rug.
“Bruno, you cannot let her dictate terms to you like this! She has no legal standing!”
I turned on my heel and looked down at my father with absolute disdain.
“You attempted to sell your favorite daughter twenty minutes ago for an unpaid invoice, Anthony.”
“You forfeited your right to speak about legal standing the moment you hid behind Gemma’s dress.”
He clamped his mouth shut, his eyes burning with cowardly resentment.
Jarro offered his hand once more.
This time, he didn't reach to grab me or pull me toward him; he simply waited for my decision.
That small gesture of patient respect spoke louder than any threat he had made with his firearm.
I placed my hand into his large, calloused palm.
His leather glove was cold from the blizzard, but his grip was firm, solid, and strangely reassuring.
“Seventy-two hours, Lydia Caruso,” he murmured, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.
“Let’s see if your brain is as sharp as your tongue.”
I grabbed my heavy wool coat from the hallway hook and slung my battered leather laptop bag over my shoulder.
As I reached the grand entryway, Gemma stepped out from the shadows of the foyer, her eyes swollen and bloodshot.
“You will die in that compound, Lydia,” she whispered, her voice venomous with envy and malice.
“He’s using you to clean up his mess, and when you’re done, he’ll dump you in an alley.”
I stopped at the threshold and looked at my gorgeous, empty half-sister for what felt like the final time.
“I’d rather take my chances in the lion's den with a gun to my head than spend another minute starving for table scraps in this house.”
I pulled my wool coat tight around my shoulders and walked out into the blinding Chicago snowstorm.
Four black armored Suburbans sat idling in the circular driveway, their exhaust billowing into the freezing night air.
Dante opened the rear door of the lead vehicle for Jarro and me.
As the heavy bulletproof door sealed shut, locking out the howling wind, the mansion behind us felt like a distant, irrelevant memory.
May you like
I thought I was walking into danger simply to recover three million dollars and earn my freedom.
I had no idea that opening Jarro Bruno’s encrypted ledgers would unravel a conspiracy reaching back to the night my mother died.
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