Chapter 3 - Sanctuary in the East Wing
Rachel sat on the edge of the carved wooden chair, her fingers locked together in her lap to hide their persistent trembling.
The scent of bergamot from the cooling Earl Grey mingled with the sharp tang of rain blowing against the glass panes.
Mason Bellini did not sit down.
He stood leaning against the marble fireplace mantel, an unlit cigarette resting between his knuckles, his gaze never leaving her face.
“Speak,” Mason said simply.
Rachel took a ragged breath and forced the words past her lips.
“Two weeks ago, Tuesday,” she began, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “Mister Vance’s study was unlocked.”
“I was instructed by Mrs. Gable to collect the silver tea service from the credenza inside.”
“Mister Vance wasn't there, but his desk was lit.”
“There was a large, black leather book lying open across the blotter.”
“I swear on my mother’s grave, Mister Bellini, I was not searching for anything.”
“I only looked down because the paper had an odd seal stamped in purple wax at the top of the leaf.”
Mason’s eyes narrowed into slits.
“Describe the seal,” he ordered, his voice dropping an octave.
“It was a split shield,” Rachel recalled, closing her eyes to see the image clearly. “A hawk’s wing on the left, three horizontal daggers on the right.”
Behind the tea table, Margaret Bellini’s breath hitched sharply.
The blind woman’s hand, which had been resting on her silver cane, tightened until her knuckles turned translucent white.
Mason noticed his mother’s reaction instantly, but he did not break his interrogation of Rachel.
“What else did you see on that page, Rachel?”
“Names,” she replied, her chest aching with the memory of Arthur Vance’s crushing grip. “And companies with foreign addresses.”
“One was called Meridian Maritime Logistics.”
“Another was listed as The Obsidian Trust, registered in Bern, Switzerland.”
“Beside each company name, there were large wire transfers recorded in black ink.”
“Hundreds of thousands of dollars, dated back to the autumn of 2004.”
“And at the bottom of the list, someone had written a single name in red fountain pen.”
Mason took one step away from the fireplace, his casual demeanor evaporating completely.
“What name?”
Rachel looked up, meeting Mason’s ferocious dark eyes for the first time without flinching.
“Donald Bellini.”
Silence descended upon the solarium with the weight of an iron vault door closing.
Donald Bellini had been the uncontested sovereign of this territory for thirty years.
He was also Mason’s father.
And he had been dead for over twenty years.
Rachel watched as Mason’s face drained of color, replaced by an expression of murderous calculation.
Margaret Bellini rose from her velvet armchair without using her cane, her frail frame trembling with a surge of terrifying strength.
“Donald,” Margaret whispered into the empty air, her voice cracking with decades of buried grief.
“Arthur had Donald’s private ledger in his possession?” Margaret asked, directing the question to the dark room.
“Arthur Vance has worked in this household for twenty-two years, Mother,” Mason said, his voice flat, stripped of all humanity.
“My father brought him in from Chicago to balance the books three months before the hit in the library.”
“Arthur was supposed to be the loyal accountant who survived the bloodbath.”
Rachel felt cold sweat trickling down the back of her neck as the pieces of a nightmare she couldn't comprehend clicked into place.
She hadn't stumbled upon a petty embezzlement scheme.
She had walked into the bloody foundations of the Bellini dynasty.
Margaret turned her sightless face toward Rachel, extending both hands until she found Rachel’s trembling shoulders.
The old woman pulled the terrified maid against her chest, wrapping her in an embrace that smelled of lavender and iron.
“You are not going back to the servants' quarters, Rachel,” Margaret declared with absolute finality.
“From this moment, you are my personal attendant.”
“You will sleep in the adjoining bedroom of my private suite in the East Wing.”
“You do not clean floors.”
“You do not carry trays to the basement.”
“And you do not walk through these corridors without Mason or two armed guards beside you.”
Rachel looked up at the towering mafia boss, expecting him to protest his mother’s decree.
Instead, Mason Bellini slowly slid his heavy gold lighter into his pocket and nodded once.
“Pack her things from the staff hall, Mother,” Mason said, reaching inside his jacket to pull out a sleek black smartphone.
“I will handle Arthur Vance myself.”
“No,” Margaret said sharply, her blind gaze locking onto her son’s voice.
“If you take Arthur into the basement tonight, his people outside will know the secret is blown.”
“We do not strike the viper while its nest is full.”
“First, you audit his records in the daylight.”
“Make him sweat until he shows us who he is working for.”
Mason paused, his thumb hovering over the phone’s screen, considering his mother’s counsel.
He looked down at Rachel, whose bruised wrist was now cradled gently in Margaret’s hands.
May you like
“You stay alive, Rachel,” Mason murmured, his voice sending a strange shiver down her spine.
“Because if Arthur Vance breaks your neck, I will have to burn this entire county to the ground to find what he took from my father.”
