Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Ringing Screen
The cold tile of the Castello estate hallway bit through the thin black fabric of my skirt, but I couldn't feel it over the sharp, pulsing throb in my knuckles. My blood smeared against the polished wood of the double doors, a jagged streak of red where I'd slammed my fists against the wall two minutes ago. My breath came in shallow, ragged hitches, the salt of my tears stinging the raw split skin of my hands.
Dante stood over me, his dark button-down shirt unbuttoned at the throat to reveal the thick, curling ink of tattoos crawling up his neck. He had taken the black smartphone right out of my trembling fingers, his touch entirely devoid of hesitation. He held it to his ear with the casual authority of a man who owned the airspace above us, listening to the muffled voice on the other end with a terrifying, motionless calm.
"Touch the boy, and I'll bury your entire crew," Dante said into the speaker. His voice was low, flat, and absolute, carrying no trace of the heat that usually accompanied threats in the underworld. It was a promise delivered with the quiet certainty of an executioner.
I pressed my back harder against the wall, trying to make myself disappear into the wood paneling. My younger brother, Leo, was eighteen, foolish, and drowning in a dice game he had no business playing. I had tried to cover his debts with my cleaning wages, scraping together what I could in envelopes left behind dumpsters, but Marcus Vance’s men wanted more than money. They wanted a message. And now, by some horrific accident of geography and timing, Dante had stepped directly into the crosshairs of a war I had tried so desperately to keep out of his house.
Dante listened for another three long, agonizing seconds. Then, without a word of warning or a flicker of expression on his sharp features, he ended the call with a deliberate tap of his thumb.
The screen went dark. He lowered his arm, turning the small rectangular device over once in his palm before dropping it back into my lap as if it were a piece of trash he'd picked off the floor. He didn't look at my face. His dark eyes remained fixed on the expanse of the hallway ahead, tracking the play of amber light from the brass wall sconces against the polished tiles.
"Get up, Sadi," he said, his tone flat.
I scrambled to my feet, my knees shaking so violently I nearly tipped sideways into the wainscoting. I cradled my bleeding hand against my stomach, trying to tuck my ruined fingers away from sight, acutely aware of the black maid uniform and the white lace-trimmed apron that suddenly felt less like a garment and more like a convict's stripes.
Without waiting for me, Dante turned on his heel and strode down the corridor toward the main study, his heavy footsteps echoing against the marble. He didn't ask me who was on the phone. He didn't need to. The man operated with an omniscient terror that made questions redundant.
Before I could take a breath to steady the roaring in my ears, a brisk, starch-stiff rustle signaled the arrival of Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper. She appeared from the intersecting service corridor like an apparition, her gray hair pinned into an immaculate bun, her eyes scanning my tear-stained face and blood-stained apron with immediate, unsparing disapproval.
"Sadi," Mrs. Gable said, her voice dropping into a register of severe, practiced ice. "Mr. Castello has given instructions. You are not to return to the lower quarters tonight."
My stomach dropped into freefall. "Mrs. Gable, please—my brother—"
"Mr. Castello's orders," she repeated, cutting me off with a sharp chop of her hand. She stepped closer, invading my space with the physical weight of her authority, her fingers gripping my upper arm just firmly enough to guide me away from the grand foyer and toward the rear of the estate. "You will finish your shift in the service pantry. You are to remain there until further notice."
"My phone—" I stammered, looking down at the black plastic casing clutched in my palm.
"Give it here," she commanded, holding out an open, palm-up hand.
"No," I whispered, pulling my arm back instinctively.
"Do not make this harder than it already is, girl," Mrs. Gable said, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "Mr. Castello knows about the boy. He knows about the debt. If you wish to see your brother draw another breath in this state, you will do precisely as you are told."
The words hit me like a physical blow. Dante knew. Not just that I had been crying on the floor, but what the call was about. He knew about Leo.
Numbly, I let the phone slide out of my fingers and into hers. Mrs. Gable slipped the device into the deep pocket of her gray wool skirt, turned on her heel, and marched me down the narrow, windowless corridor toward the service pantry. She unlocked the heavy oak door with a brass key, swung it open, and gestured inside with a flick of her chin.
"Stay," she said.
I stepped over the threshold into the small, cramped room lined with rows of canned goods, spare linens, and heavy cleaning supplies. The air smelled faintly of bleach and old dust. Before I could turn around, the heavy door slammed shut, and the distinct, chilling click of the deadbolt sliding into place echoed in the confined space.
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I slid down the wooden door until I hit the floor, pulling my knees to my chest. The pain in my cracked knuckles flared anew, a white-hot throb that matched the pounding in my skull. I was locked away, my phone was gone, and Dante Castello had just declared war on the men who held my brother's life in their hands.
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