Chapter 5 - THE TRAITOR AT THE TABLE
Being threatened by an anonymous criminal is surprisingly inconvenient when you have a three o’clock plumbing appointment.
“I still have work tomorrow,” I told Dominic.
“No.”
I stared at him.
“No?”
“You’re staying here.”
“That sounded dangerously close to an order.”
“It was.”
“I don’t work for you.”
“You’re being threatened.”
“I’m aware.”
“Then act like it.”
I folded my arms.
“How exactly does a threatened person act? Should I faint?”
His jaw tightened.
I should probably have been more frightened.
Instead, I was irritated.
Dominic was used to controlling rooms.
I was used to customers telling me their six-year-old carpet stains were “practically new.”
Neither of us surrendered easily.
Eventually we reached a compromise.
My agency suspended my appointments.
Dominic arranged security.
I would remain at Montrose until the bank opened.
And I would choose my own bedroom.
“You have eleven,” he said.
“That is an unreasonable number of bedrooms.”
“I didn’t build the house.”
“Still judging you.”
The following morning, I woke before seven and went downstairs.
Dominic was already in the kitchen.
His breakfast consisted of coffee.
“That’s not food.”
“It is at seven in the morning.”
“No.”
“Elena.”
“Eggs?”
He sighed.
“Fine.”
That became our routine almost by accident.
I cooked.
He drank terrible coffee.
I criticized his kitchen organization.
He pretended to dislike it.
By lunchtime, several members of his household staff had begun staring at us strangely.
One enormous man named Frank whispered to Julian:
“He’s eating spinach.”
I pointed my knife at him.
“I heard that.”
Frank disappeared.
At noon, we visited the bank.
The key opened an old private box registered under Lucia Vale.
Inside were property files, photographs, and a small black notebook.
The notebook contained dates, construction payments, security schedules, and initials.
One set appeared repeatedly.
M.R.
Dominic frowned.
“Could mean anything.”
I flipped through more pages.
One entry was dated the night of the attack.
M.R. moved rear security at 11:35.
Grace saw him.
Do not confront alone.
My skin prickled.
“Who is M.R.?”
Dominic did not answer.
“Dominic.”
He closed the notebook.
“Matteo Russo.”
“Who’s that?”
The bank room suddenly seemed very quiet.
“My father’s closest adviser.”
“Was?”
“Is.”
My stomach dropped.
“How close?”
Dominic’s eyes hardened.
“He has dinner at my house every Sunday.”
I remembered Mom’s warning.
The danger ate at their table.
Then Dominic’s phone buzzed.
A message from Julian.
SUNDAY DINNER MOVED TO TONIGHT.
MATTEO IS ALREADY AT THE HOUSE.
Dominic looked at me.
May you like
The traitor my mother had warned me about might be waiting for us at Montrose.
And according to Dominic, Matteo Russo had been more like family than an employee for thirty years.
