Chapter 3 - The Ledger in the Floorboards
Gabriel returned to the ballroom through the service entrance.
The quartet was playing a waltz. Near the tree, Lily was still sitting patiently, her small feet dangling, watching Margaret Collins. Margaret remained standing where Gabriel had left her, though her composure was fraying; she kept checking her diamond wristwatch, looking toward the heavy double doors.
Gabriel didn't look at her. He caught the eye of Dante Ruiz, his chief of security and enforcer of fifteen years.
Dante, a hulking man of six-foot-three with a jagged scar running from his ear to his collar, disengaged from a conversation with the county sheriff and appeared at Gabriel's side in three strides.
“Boss?” Dante murmured.
“Take the Bennett child up to the East Suite,” Gabriel said quietly. “Have Maria bring warm milk, honey, and fresh fruit. Call Alan down from the library. Tell him to bring burn dressings, antiseptic, and local anesthetics. He is to treat Grace Bennett’s hands immediately.”
Dante’s dark eyebrows rose slightly. “The maid?”
“Do it now. And then bring three of your best boys down to the staff administration office in the sub-basement. I want every filing cabinet, every computer hard drive, and every personal ledger belonging to Margaret Collins seized.”
Dante nodded without asking a single question. “Understood.”
Gabriel watched as Dante walked over to Lily. The terrifying hitman squatted down, smiled warmly, and offered his massive hand to the little girl. Lily hesitated, looked at Gabriel, saw him nod, and placed her tiny hand into Dante’s palm. Together, they walked toward the private elevator.
Margaret watched them leave, her eyes flashing with sudden, frantic calculation. As Gabriel approached her, she took a hurried step forward.
“Mr. Moretti! I hope that woman didn't offend you. Grace Bennett is notoriously unstable. I’ve caught her several times lingering where she shouldn’t be, and—”
“My office,” Gabriel said, not breaking his stride. “Now.”
He didn't wait for her. He walked past the whispering guests, through the heavy mahogany doors of his private study, and sat behind his desk of carved black oak.
The study was soundproofed, lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves containing rare legal treatises and centuries-old maps of Illinois. On the corner of the desk sat a heavy bronze paperweight shaped like a roaring lion.
Margaret entered, her heels clicking rapidly on the Persian rug. She closed the door behind her, clutching her clipboard like a shield.
“Mr. Moretti, if this is about the registration—”
“Sit down, Margaret.”
She swallowed hard and took a seat in the leather wingback chair across from him, her spine stiff.
“You told me Grace Bennett failed to register her daughter for the holiday manifest,” Gabriel began, his hands resting flat on the mahogany surface.
“Yes, sir. I have the forms right here—”
“Grace Bennett cannot write,” Gabriel stated evenly.
Margaret froze. The color drained from her lips.
“I reviewed her employment file two minutes ago on my phone,” Gabriel continued, tapping the black screen beside him. “Her application was processed through a domestic agency in Bridgeport sixteen months ago. Her education is listed as minimal, her signature is a shaky mark, and her background check was signed off by *you* personally. If she couldn't read the memos, Margaret, why didn't you assist her?”
Margaret cleared her throat, adjusting her posture. “Mr. Moretti, I oversee dozens of employees. I cannot hold the hand of every illiterate maid who walks through that gate. If she couldn't comply with company standards, she shouldn't have accepted the position.”
“And the heating valve in the scullery?” Gabriel asked. “The commercial dishwasher that has been out of service for three weeks?”
“A budgetary measure, sir! You told me in October to reduce estate overhead by four percent!”
Gabriel leaned forward. The room seemed to shrink, the air growing suffocatingly heavy.
“I told you to reduce overhead on the wine cellar and vehicle maintenance,” Gabriel whispered. “I did not tell you to force a woman to scrub six hundred plates in freezing water until the flesh tore from her fingers.”
Before Margaret could respond, the office door swung open.
Dante walked in, carrying a battered metal lockbox and a black leather notebook. His knuckles were dusty, and a smear of soot darkened his jaw.
“Boss,” Dante said, setting the lockbox onto the desk with a heavy metallic thud. “We pulled this from behind the radiator in Mrs. Collins’ private quarters. Hidden beneath a loose floorboard.”
Margaret lunged forward from her chair with a shriek. “That’s private property! You have no right to touch my things!”
Dante didn't even look at her; he simply placed a heavy hand on her shoulder and forced her back into the chair with enough pressure to pin her against the leather.
“Open it,” Gabriel said.
Dante used a small crowbar from his pocket to snap the latch. The lid flew back, revealing bundles of hundred-dollar bills bound with rubber bands, three burner cellphones, and a stack of printed bank statements from the Cayman Islands.
Gabriel picked up the black notebook. He flipped through the pages.
The entries were written in Margaret’s neat, flowing cursive. But they weren't estate expenses.
They were logs.
*November 4: Target spent two hours in the greenhouse. Child was with her. No contact with outside world.*
*November 18: Hot water disconnected in scullery. Physical stamina declining. Signs of severe stress noted.*
*December 2: Replaced iron supplements with inert chalk. Target experiencing dizziness and fatigue.*
*December 20: Christmas manifest altered. Child isolated. Target’s psychological breaking point estimated within 14 days.*
Gabriel’s eyes traveled down to the bottom of the page. There was an account number, followed by a wire transfer confirmation for fifty thousand dollars.
The sender’s name was listed as *V-Holdings International*.
Gabriel knew that shell company. It belonged to Julian Vance—the head of the South Side Syndicate, Gabriel’s bitterest enemy, and the man who had orchestrated the ambush that killed Gabriel’s older brother, Marco, five years ago.
Gabriel slowly closed the book. He looked at Margaret.
“You were never running my house,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping into a register so dark it made the hair on the back of Dante’s neck stand up. “You were running an internment camp.”
Margaret began to hyperventilate, her aristocratic veneer shattering into pathetic, shivering fragments.
“Who is Grace Bennett, Margaret?” Gabriel demanded.
Margaret shook her head frantically, tears running down her powdered cheeks. “If I tell you, Julian will kill my son! He knows where my son goes to school in Boston! Please, Mr. Moretti! I had no choice!”
Gabriel stood up, towering over the desk. “You chose to hurt a mother and her child under my roof. You chose to poison my house for Julian Vance’s silver. Dante.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Take her down to the wine cellar,” Gabriel said coldly. “The secure vault. Strip her of all electronics. Nobody speaks to her until I come down.”
Dante grabbed Margaret by the arm and hauled her out of the chair. She began to scream, but Dante slapped a hand over her mouth, dragging her backward out of the study and down the shadowed hallway.
Gabriel stood alone in the quiet office. He looked at the black notebook again.
*Target spent two hours in the greenhouse. Child was with her.*
Julian Vance didn't spend fifty thousand dollars a month to torment a common maid. He didn't send hitmen and spies to monitor an illiterate cleaner from Bridgeport.
May you like
Gabriel pocketed the notebook, walked out of his study, and took the elevator up to the private east gallery.
***
