Chapter 3 - The Secret Debt
The master library of the Falcone estate was a room reserved for executions of a financial and literal nature. Tonight, however, it smelled of hot chamomile tea and heavy wool blankets.
Rebecca sat on the edge of a green velvet Chesterfield sofa, a large towel wrapped around her hair, her hands clamped tightly around a porcelain mug. Clementine was asleep beside her, her head resting on her mother’s damp lap, her thumb tucked securely into her mouth.
Adriano stood by the grand fireplace, his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, staring into the unlit hearth. Frank, his oldest captain and most trusted confidant, stood by the heavy oak door like a sentry.
“Three years, Rebecca,” Adriano said, his back still turned to her. “For three years, my men have searched every county from here to the Blue Ridge Mountains. I sent trackers to Wheeling, to Charleston, to every hollow in West Virginia. And all this time, you were cleaning the toilets in my own guest wing.”
Rebecca swallowed hard, her throat feeling like sandpaper. “I didn't know, Mr. Falcone. I didn't know who you were. The agency in Pittsburgh just gave me an address. They said it was a secure family estate.”
Adriano turned around. The raw agony on his face was startling. He walked over to his desk, unlocked a heavy steel drawer, and pulled out a small, dented silver pocket watch. He walked over and placed it on the table in front of Rebecca.
The back of the watch was scorched black, but the initials T.H. were still visible through the soot.
Rebecca’s breath hitched. Her hand trembled as she let go of the tea mug and touched the metal. “Thomas... this was Thomas’s watch. His grandfather gave it to him.”
“Your husband didn't die in a roadside accident, Rebecca,” Adriano said, his voice heavy with a guilt that had rotted him from the inside out for thirty-six months. “He died because of me. Three years ago, my convoy was ambushed on Route 95 outside New Haven. My security detail was dead. My leg was shattered, and my car was flipping into the ditch. The rival families had set the gasoline lines to blow.”
He took a deep breath, his knuckles turning white as he leaned against the sofa frame.
“Thomas was driving his service van home from a late-night electrical job. He didn't know who I was. He didn't know about the mafia, or the money, or the danger. He just saw a man trapped in a burning wreck. He pulled over. He used his heavy tools to pry my door open. He dragged me fifty yards through the brush just as the tank exploded.”
Rebecca’s tears fell silently, soaking into the wool blanket around her shoulders. “He never told me. He just called me from the hospital and said he’d been in a wreck... and then the police called back an hour later to say his heart had stopped from the smoke inhalation.”
“The rival hitmen came back to finish the job,” Adriano whispered, his eyes flashing with a ancient, terrible rage. “Thomas stood between them and the ditch where I was crawling. He took two bullets meant for my spine before my reinforcement team arrived. He died a king, Rebecca. He died protecting a stranger. And I swore an oath on his body that his wife and child would never want for a single dollar as long as the Falcone name carried weight in this state.”
He looked toward the service corridor doors, his jaw setting into iron. “But someone intercepted my orders. Someone made sure the money I sent to West Virginia never arrived. Someone made sure you were left broke, desperate, and forced to beg for a maid's position in my own house where you could be kept hidden and humiliated.”
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Frank stepped forward from the door, his face grim. “Boss. We traced the placement agency logs from eighteen months ago. The work order for Rebecca’s hiring didn't come from the main corporate office. It was signed off by a personal account.”
Adriano didn't need to ask the name. “Genevieve.”
