Page 28 of Ruthless Vow
“Before dinner, I play chess with Marco. Tradition.”
The tradition I’ve kept since Marco was twelve years old and grieving a mother he could not remember. The one constant in a decade of chaos. He’s beaten me three times. I remember every game.
“You should join us.”
“I don’t play chess.”
“Then watch.” I pause at the threshold. Don’t look back. “You’re part of this family now. Act like it.”
I leave before she can respond. Before I can see whatever crosses her face. Before I do something stupid, like go back and ask her to explain the numbers again.
Just so I can hear her voice speed up when she’s excited. Just so I can watch her hands move when she’s illustrating a point. Just so I can stand near enough to catch that faint floral scent that’s become familiar without my permission.
Her shampoo. Her skin. Her.
I head for the gym. I need to hit something.
It doesn’t help.
It never fucking does.
7
CASSIA
He meant what he said.
Maria delivers a key to the study. My own key. No explanation, just a small envelope on my breakfast tray with the brass weight inside.
I turn it over in my palm. Brass, worn smooth at the edges. Old. This key has history. Has opened this door for decades, maybe longer.
And now it’s mine.
The coffee maker has been moved to the sideboard when I let myself in. A fresh bag of the creamer I use sits beside it. Not the powdered kind from the kitchen. The oat milk creamer I mentioned once to Maria in passing.
He noticed. Or someone noticed and told him.
I take what I can get.
The study is different when I’m alone. Smaller. More mine. I run my fingers along the spines of the books on the shelf behind the desk. Law texts, histories, a few novels in Italian that I can’t read. Salvatore’s collection, untouched for years.
There’s a photograph on the bottom shelf, half-hidden behind a stack of ledgers. I pull it out.
A woman with dark hair and laughing eyes, holding a baby in her arms. Lucia. It has to be. She’s young in this picture, maybe my age, and she’s looking at the camera like whoever’s behind it hung the moon.
Salvatore, taking a picture of his wife and child. A moment of ordinary happiness, preserved in silver and paper.
I put it back where I found it. Some things aren’t mine to touch.
The days take on a rhythm.
I arrive early, before the compound wakes. Make coffee with the creamer he provided. Spread ledgers across the desk and lose myself in numbers until Maria appears with the lunch I forget to eat.
The work is methodical. Soothing. Each discrepancy I find is a thread I can pull, a pattern I can trace. Numbers don’t lie. Numbers don’t look through you. Numbers reward patience and attention with truth.
I’m building a case against someone in this house. Someone who’s been stealing for years. Someone who sits at the same table, eats the same food, fakes loyalty while bleeding the family dry.
I don’t know who yet. But I will.
