Chapter 4 - The Gravel Driveway
At four-forty-five that afternoon, the sky turned the deep, bruised violet of early dusk.
Inside the kitchen, Angela stood by the long prep table, wrapping her scarf around her neck. Her fingers were stiff. The brown jar of Saratoga salve was tucked deep into the inner pocket of her coat, resting against her ribs like a warm stone.
Rosalie watched her from the sink, drying a silver serving platter with a linen towel.
"He's outside," Rosalie said simply, glancing toward the rear window.
Angela’s stomach dropped. She turned her head to look through the glass. Sitting near the stone pillars at the end of the long driveway was the rust-streaked grey Ford Focus, its exhaust pipe blowing white clouds of smoke into the freezing air.
"Thank you for the tea, Ms. Costa," Angela said quietly, pulling her thin wool gloves over her hands.
"Angela," Rosalie called out before the younger woman reached the service door.
Angela paused, her hand hovering over the brass latch.
"You don't have to walk out there fast," Rosalie said, her aged voice carrying a sudden, hard edge. "This house has thick walls. And the man who owns it doesn't like people making noise on his driveway."
Angela gave a tiny, almost invisible nod and opened the door.
The evening air bit into her face like needles. She walked down the concrete steps and onto the gravel path, her legs feeling heavy, like she was walking through wet concrete. Every step toward the grey sedan felt like stepping closer to a ledge.
Inside the car, Derek Lawson sat with his hands gripped tightly around the steering wheel. He was thirty-two, with thin red hair, sharp cheeks, and a mouth that was almost always set in a bitter, sullen line. He watched Angela walk down the driveway through his foggy windshield.
Before Angela reached the passenger door, Derek threw his car door open and stepped out into the gravel, his heavy work boots crunching loudly in the quiet evening.
"You're seven minutes late," Derek snapped, his voice harsh and loud in the crisp air. "What the hell were you doing in there? I told you five o'clock sharp!"
"I was finishing the pantry floor, Derek," Angela said softly, keeping her eyes glued to the gravel at his feet. "Ms. Costa asked me to finish wiping the shelves."
Derek stepped closer, his body radiating a tense, nervous heat that smelled of cheap tobacco and stale lager. He grabbed her by the upper right arm—the exact spot where the dark plum finger-marks sat beneath her sweater.
Angela bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a cry.
"Don't give me that bullshit," Derek hissed, leaning down into her face, his grip tightening. "You think because you're cleaning some rich old bastard's estate you get to keep me waiting in the cold? Hand over the envelope."
"I don't have the cash yet," Angela whispered, her body trembling. "Payday is Friday."
"You ask for an advance!" Derek snarled, shaking her arm roughly. "I told you yesterday to ask the old lady for an advance! I got people calling my phone every twenty minutes, Angela!"
He raised his free hand, his fingers curling into a fist.
"Is there a problem with the service entrance, Mr. Lawson?"
The voice didn't come from behind Angela. It came from the top of the stone steps—quiet, flat, and carrying across the open gravel driveway like a pistol shot.
Derek froze. His hand remained suspended in the air.
Standing on the top step, illuminated by the warm amber carriage lights of the estate, was Silvano Marquetti. He wasn't wearing a coat, despite the freezing temperature. He stood with his hands resting casually inside his trouser pockets, his dark eyes fixed entirely on Derek’s fingers wrapped around Angela’s arm.
Beside him, standing two steps down, was Frankie Valenti. Frankie’s right hand was tucked casually inside his heavy leather jacket.
Derek cleared his throat, trying to force a sneer onto his pale face, but his eyes darted nervously between Silvano and the massive figure of Frankie.
"Who the hell are you?" Derek blustered, though his grip on Angela’s arm loosened slightly. "This is private business between me and my girl."
Silvano took one step down the stairs. Just one. His leather shoes made no sound against the stone.
"You are parked on my gravel," Silvano said softly. "You are shouting on my land. And you are putting your hands on a person who works under my roof."
"She’s my girlfriend!" Derek shouted, though his voice cracked at the end. "I bring her here, I take her home! You don't own her!"
Silvano didn't look angry. That was what made Angela’s blood run cold. She had seen men get angry—Derek got angry every day, smashing plates and punching drywall. But Silvano Marquetti didn't look like a man who lost his temper. He looked like an butcher standing over a block, deciding where to make the first cut.
"Frankie," Silvano said quietly.
"Yeah, Boss?"
"If this vehicle is still on my property in thirty seconds, strip the tires and drop it in the river."
Frankie took two heavy steps forward, pulling his hand from his coat. The dull grey sheen of a heavy brass knuckle duster glinted under the porch lights.
Derek’s face went completely white. He let go of Angela’s arm so fast he almost knocked her over. He stumbled backward toward his car door, his confidence completely evaporating into terror.
"You guys are crazy!" Derek spat, scrambling into the driver's seat and locking the door. "Angela! Get in the damn car!"
Angela stood frozen on the gravel path between the two forces, her breathing coming in short, panicked gasps.
"Angela," Silvano spoke again, his voice dropping into a deep, gentle tone that made her chest ache. "The third floor is clean. The key is on the shelf."
Derek slammed his horn, the loud, grating noise shattering the stillness of the yard. "Angela! Get in now, or don't bother coming back to the apartment!"
Angela looked at the grey sedan. She looked at Derek’s furious, panicked eyes behind the glass. Then she turned her head and looked up at the top of the stone steps.
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Silvano Marquetti was watching her, holding the heavy oak front door open three inches with his bare hand. Waiting. Not ordering. Not pulling. Just holding the door against the dark.
Angela took a slow, agonizing breath, turned her back on the car, and walked up the steps into the house.
