Chapter 2 - The Account My Father Never Mentioned
I had spent two years believing my father died penniless.
Now a mafia boss, his second-in-command, and an elderly musician were staring at me as though my name belonged to a buried scandal.
"What account?" I demanded.
Vincent looked toward Levi.
"Answer her."
Levi adjusted his cuffs.
"Michael Young worked as an accountant for one of our former business partners. There were outstanding financial matters."
My stomach tightened.
"My father taught ballroom dancing."
"He also handled financial records," Vincent replied.
I stared at him.
"Dad never told me that."
Vincent's expression softened.
"How long was he ill?"
"Almost five years."
"And you paid for his care?"
I lifted my chin.
"I did what I could."
He looked toward my blistered feet.
Then at the serving tray I'd abandoned.
For some reason, I hated his sympathy.
"I don't need charity, Mr. Graham."
"I'm not offering charity."
"Then what are you offering?"
He hesitated.
"Answers."
Before I could respond, my manager, Walter Finch, stormed across the floor.
"Katie! Have you completely lost your mind?"
I turned.
"Mr. Finch—"
"You shattered six glasses, abandoned your station, and made a spectacle of yourself!"
Vincent's expression hardened.
"She danced."
Walter stopped.
"Sir?"
"She danced because I challenged the entire room."
Walter swallowed.
"Of course, Mr. Graham."
"Then the broken glasses are my responsibility."
I stared at Vincent.
He looked at me.
"And nobody is deducting them from her wages."
Walter nodded immediately.
"Understood."
Then he turned toward me with a glare promising revenge later.
I recognized it.
I'd seen that look from wealthy men and frightened managers for years.
Vincent noticed too.
"Mr. Finch."
Walter froze.
"Yes, sir?"
"You're dismissed from this conversation."
Walter hurried away.
I folded my arms.
"You didn't have to do that."
"Do what?"
"Fight my battles."
Vincent almost smiled.
"Apparently, you prefer fighting mine."
I wanted to argue.
Instead, I looked toward George.
The elderly bandleader stood beside the piano, twisting his baton nervously.
"George, what did you mean about my father's money?"
He looked toward Levi.
Then whispered:
"Michael wanted you to have the truth when you turned thirty."
"I'm twenty-seven."
"I know."
My heart began pounding.
"Then why are you telling me now?"
George's eyes filled.
"Because I watched you dance."
He looked toward Vincent.
"And I realized you're exactly like your father."
I swallowed.
"How?"
George's voice broke.
"Michael never backed away when someone powerful told him to be quiet."
Levi stepped forward.
"George, that's enough."
Vincent raised one hand.
"Let him speak."
George reached inside his jacket.
He removed a faded photograph.
My father stood beside a younger Vincent Graham.
Both wore tuxedos.
Behind them stood a woman in a white ballroom gown.
I stared.
"Who's she?"
Vincent's expression changed.
"Her name was Eleanor Graham."
"Your wife?"
He nodded slowly.
"Yes."
My heart tightened.
Vincent continued.
"She died twelve years ago."
Then George turned the photograph over.
My father's handwriting covered the back.
If anything happens to Eleanor, ask Vincent about the night Levi changed the music.
I looked up sharply.
May you like
Vincent stared at the words.
And for the first time that evening, the man everyone feared looked genuinely terrified.
