Chapter 3 – The Flowers on the Mug
The town car idled at the massive iron gates of the Castellano estate, the rain drumming a steady, hollow beat against the roof.
“The account numbers to ten million dollars of stolen cartel money are painted on the bottom of that mug.”
The words echoed in my ear, terrifying and impossible.
I looked down at Emma. She was sleeping peacefully against my shoulder, the faint glow of the streetlamps illuminating her exhausted face.
She had made that mug in a high school pottery class. How could Steven have put cartel account numbers on it?
“You’re lying,” I whispered into the phone, my hand trembling so badly the device nearly slipped from my grip.
“Am I?” the distorted voice mocked. “Steven is a coward, Laura. He knew the Castellano family would eventually audit his contracting firm once he married Isabella. He needed a place to hide the offshore routing numbers for the cartel’s money. A place nobody would ever look.”
My mind raced back to the dining room.
The blue ceramic mug. Emma had brought it as a peace offering to Isabella, believing Isabella was the woman who had replaced me. But Steven had originally taken it from Emma two years ago, promising to deliver it to me for Mother’s Day.
He had kept it. He had painted over the bottom.
“If you want the mug, you’ll have to come get it,” I bluffed, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s inside the mansion. Protected by Roman Castellano’s men.”
A low, grating chuckle vibrated through the speaker.
“I know exactly where it is, Laura,” the voice said. “And I know you’re sitting in a car at the front gate. You have twenty-four hours to retrieve that mug and bring it to the abandoned shipyard on the East Side. If you tell Castellano, or if you go to the police, I will send a copy of the forged deed to the cartel.”
“The cartel doesn’t care about a house deed!” I argued.
“They will when they see whose name Steven put down as the co-signer for the laundered money,” the voice sneered. “He didn’t use his own name, Laura. He used yours. If I send that deed to the cartel, they won’t come looking for Steven in prison. They’ll come looking for you and your daughter.”
The line went dead.
I lowered the phone, my breath catching in my throat.
Steven had framed me. He had used my forged signature not just to steal my mother’s house, but to co-sign the accounts holding ten million dollars of stolen cartel money. If the cartel found out the money was missing, they would hunt me and Emma down.
“Ma’am?” the driver asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror as the iron gates slowly swung open. “Are we heading to your apartment?”
I looked out the window at the dark, rainy night. I couldn’t go home. Not with a target on my back. And I couldn’t ask Roman to fight a war with a cartel he didn’t even know was involved. He had already risked his life for me tonight.
“No,” I said quickly, my heart pounding. “Turn around. Take us back to the mansion.”
The driver frowned. “Sir Castellano requested I take you home, ma’am.”
“Please,” I begged, my voice cracking. “I left something inside. It’s an emergency.”
The driver hesitated, but seeing the genuine panic in my eyes, he put the car in reverse and backed up the long, winding driveway.
I gently shook Emma awake.
“Mom? Are we home?” she mumbled, rubbing her eyes.
“Not yet, baby,” I whispered, keeping my voice low. “I need you to do exactly as I say. When we get back to the mansion, I want you to go straight to Isabella’s room and stay with her. Do not leave her side.”
Emma sat up, suddenly wide awake, sensing my fear. “Why? What’s going on? Is Dad back?”
“No, your father is in jail,” I assured her, squeezing her hand. “But there’s something I need to fix. Just promise me you’ll stay with Isabella.”
“I promise,” Emma nodded, looking terrified.
The car pulled up to the front steps of the mansion. I jumped out before the driver could open the door, pulling Emma with me. We ran up the marble stairs and pushed through the heavy oak doors.
The grand foyer was eerily quiet. The cleanup crew had already removed the shattered glass and spilled wine from the dining room, but the tension in the air remained thick.
I pointed Emma toward the grand staircase. “Go. Hurry.”
She squeezed my hand one last time and sprinted up the stairs toward Isabella’s suite.
I turned and walked rapidly toward the dining room. My caterer’s uniform was stained with sweat and dirt, but I didn’t care. I needed that mug.
I pushed the dining room doors open.
The room was pristine. The long mahogany table was wiped clean. The chairs were perfectly aligned.
And the blue ceramic mug was gone.
“No, no, no,” I panicked, rushing to the table, checking under the chairs, scanning the sideboard. It wasn’t there.
“Are you looking for this?” a deep voice asked from the shadows near the fireplace.
I spun around.
Roman stepped into the dim light of the dining room. He had taken off his suit jacket and tie, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing the dark tattoos sprawling across his chest.
In his right hand, he held the crooked blue ceramic mug.
“Roman,” I breathed, a wave of profound relief washing over me. “Please, I need that.”
He didn’t hand it to me. He held it up to the light, inspecting the yellow painted flowers around the rim.
“It’s a beautiful piece,” Roman said quietly, his dark eyes locking onto mine. “But I don’t think you came running back here in a panic just for sentimental reasons.”
I swallowed hard, stepping toward him. “It belongs to my daughter. It’s important to her.”
Roman tilted the mug, looking at the bottom.
“Is it?” Roman asked softly. “Or is it important to the man who called you in the car five minutes ago?”
My blood ran cold. “How did you know someone called me?”
“Because my driver is trained to alert me when a passenger turns visibly pale and orders him to turn around,” Roman stated, his voice dropping to a dangerous, commanding register. “Who called you, Laura?”
“Nobody,” I lied, my voice shaking. “It was a wrong number.”
Roman’s expression hardened. The gentle, protective man from the garage vanished, replaced entirely by the ruthless Don of Chicago.
He walked slowly toward me, stopping inches away. He reached out and gently tilted my chin up, forcing me to look him in the eyes.
“I just dismantled a wedding, broke my sister’s heart, and shot a man to protect you tonight, Laura,” Roman whispered, his voice vibrating with a terrifying intensity. “Do not lie to me in my own house.”
Tears welled in my eyes. I couldn’t lie to him. But telling him the truth meant dragging him into a war with a cartel.
“If I tell you, you’ll be in danger,” I cried, the tears spilling over my lashes.
Roman let out a low, humorless laugh. He released my chin and took a step back, holding the mug up between us.
“I am the danger, Laura,” Roman said coldly.
He grabbed a heavy silver butter knife from the sideboard.
“No! What are you doing?!” I gasped, reaching for the mug.
Roman ignored me. He flipped the mug upside down and scraped the tip of the knife hard against the bottom, directly over the words Love, Emma.
A thick layer of blue paint chipped away, falling onto the mahogany table like dust.
Underneath the paint, glowing starkly against the white ceramic, were two rows of tiny, perfectly printed numbers.
A routing number and an offshore account number.
Roman stared at the numbers, his jaw clenching so tightly a muscle feathered in his cheek.
“Cayman Islands,” Roman deduced immediately, recognizing the format. “This is a ghost account.”
He looked up at me, his eyes dark with sudden, violent realization.
“Steven wasn’t just stealing from you,” Roman said, his voice deadly quiet. “He was laundering money. Who called you, Laura?”
“I don’t know his name!” I sobbed, collapsing into a dining chair. “He said Steven was laundering ten million dollars for a cartel. He said Steven forged my name as the co-signer on the account to frame me. If I don’t bring him this mug by tomorrow, he’s giving the forged deed to the cartel.”
Roman went completely still.
“Which cartel?” Roman asked, the temperature in the room dropping to freezing.
“He didn’t say,” I wept, burying my face in my hands. “He just said they would kill me and Emma.”
For a long moment, Roman didn’t speak. He just stared at the numbers on the bottom of the mug.
Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He didn’t dial a number; he pressed a single button, activating a direct line.
“Marco,” Roman commanded, his voice devoid of any human emotion. “Are you at the hospital?”
“Yes, Boss,” Marco’s voice crackled through the speaker, strained with pain. “They just patched my shoulder. I’m waiting for the all-clear to leave.”
“You aren’t leaving,” Roman ordered. “Steven Mitchell is in police custody at the 12th District precinct. He’s going to be transferred to the county jail in two hours.”
“Understood, Boss,” Marco said. “What do you want me to do?”
Roman looked at me, his eyes burning with a terrifying, absolute vengeance.
“Intercept the transport,” Roman whispered. “Take Steven. Bring him to the warehouse.”
My head snapped up. “Roman, no! The police will arrest you!”
Roman ignored me. “And Marco?”
“Yes, Boss?”
“Tell the cleanup crew to prep the interrogation room,” Roman said coldly. “I want him strapped to the chair before I get there. He’s going to tell me exactly whose money he’s hiding in my house.”
Roman hung up the phone.
He turned to me, the ruthless mafia boss standing tall in the dim lighting of the dining room.
“You and Emma are going to stay in my private suite tonight,” Roman instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument. “My men will guard the door. You do not leave this house until I return.”
“What are you going to do to him?” I asked, terrified of the violence I had just unleashed.
Roman walked over to me, gently taking my trembling hands in his warm, steady grip.
“I am going to ask him a question, Laura,” Roman promised softly. “And if he doesn’t give me the right answer, your daughter is going to be an orphan by sunrise.”
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