Chapter 3 - The Salon of Glass and Lies
The grand salon of the Falcone mansion on Lake Shore Drive was bathed in the cold, unforgiving glare of three towering crystal chandeliers. Outside, the black expanse of Lake Michigan churned with icy whitecaps beneath a violent spring storm.
Twenty-four domestic workers—maids, kitchen staff, chauffeurs, and groundskeepers—stood in a rigid, silent line along the perimeter of the parquet floor.
At the center of the room sat Bianca Vance, draped in an ivory cashmere wrap over an emerald silk gown. Her eyes were artificially rimmed in red, a monogrammed lace handkerchief clutched in her manicured hand.
"It had to be someone on the staff," Bianca was saying, her melodic, patrician voice carrying effortlessly to where Rocco Falcone stood by the arched fireplace. "Titus was aggressive toward the domestic staff, Rocco. Everyone knew he growled whenever the laundry carts passed the study. Someone left that gate open on purpose to get rid of him."
Rocco Falcone did not look at her.
He stood six-foot-three in a bespoke charcoal three-piece suit, his hands resting in his pockets, his posture carved from absolute, terrifying granite. His dark hair was brushed back, streaked with silver at the temples, and his slate-gray eyes were fixed on the empty Persian rug before the hearth where the mastiff had slept every evening for seven years.
He looked like a man standing over an open grave.
"No one on my staff touched that gate," Rocco said. His voice was low, flat, and carried the concussive weight of a falling guillotine.
"Rocco, darling, you're in denial," Bianca insisted, rising from her chair, stepping toward him with her diamond rings glittering under the chandeliers. "You loved the animal, but we have to be realistic. My father’s private investigators found traces of blood near the 47th Street canal. If he fell into the drainage sluice, he’s gone. You need to let the search teams stand down."
The heavy double doors of the salon opened.
Marin stepped into the room.
She wore her faded black uniform dress, her hair pulled back into a severe bun, her face pale and scrubbed clean of makeup. Her fingers were raw from dragging a hundred and fifty pounds of dog across two miles of concrete, and her knuckles bore faint scratches from the zip-ties.
Bianca’s eyes narrowed instantly. "And where were you, Miss Hollis? The staff was assembled forty-five minutes ago."
"I apologize, Miss Vance," Marin said, keeping her eyes cast respectfully down at the floor, speaking with the quiet, invisible subservience expected of her. "The police blocked the South Side transit corridor. I had to walk three miles in the rain."
Bianca let out a soft, dismissive tsk. "Always an excuse with the South Side girls. Look at your shoes, girl—you're tracking mud onto the parquet. Go to the laundry and don't come up until you're called."
Marin didn't move.
May you like
She raised her chin. Her gaze moved past Bianca Vance, locking straight onto the dangerous, unreadable eyes of Rocco Falcone.
"I cannot go to the laundry, Mr. Falcone," Marin said, her voice clear and resonant, cutting through the vast salon like an iron bell. "Because I have something in my coat that belongs to you."
