Chapter 2 – THE SHADOW IN THE ROOM

My heart hammered against my ribs.

Victor.

The man who had just escorted Celeste away. The man Marco trusted with his life.

“Mrs. D’Angelo,” I whispered, my mouth dry. “Is this the car?”

Helen nodded, tears slipping down her wrinkled cheeks. “Daniel found it. He realized Victor was the one driving the night Marco’s father died. But Victor is dangerous. Daniel knew if he went to the police, Victor would kill Marco to cover his tracks.”

I stared at the blood on the bumper in the photo.

“So Daniel went to prison to buy time,” I realized.

“Yes. He took the embezzlement charge to get off the streets and keep Marco safe while I kept the car hidden.”

Suddenly, heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway.

A sharp knock rattled my bedroom door.

“Olivia.”

It was Marco.

I quickly shoved the photograph into the deep pocket of my uniform apron.

I opened the door. Marco stood there, his suit jacket discarded, his tie loosened. He looked exhausted.

“Is she asleep?” he asked softly.

“She’s resting, sir.”

He nodded. “I’m leaving for the storage unit right now. I want you to stay here with her. Lock the door. Do not let anyone in except me.”

I panicked. If he went to the storage unit, Victor would surely go with him.

“Mr. Bellini, wait.”

He paused. “What is it?”

I couldn’t give him the photo here. Victor was somewhere in the house. If Victor saw me hand it over, neither Helen nor I would survive the night.

“I… I should come with you,” I blurted out.

Marco frowned. “Olivia, this isn’t your job.”

“Mrs. D’Angelo asked me to help you,” I lied smoothly. “She said there are documents in the unit. They’re fragile. I can organize them while you look at the car.”

Marco studied my face. He saw the desperation in my eyes.

He didn’t ask questions. “Get your coat.”

Ten minutes later, we walked out to the rain-swept driveway.

A black SUV was waiting.

Victor was behind the wheel.

“Ready, Boss?” Victor asked, his voice rough and steady.

“Drive, Victor,” Marco said, sliding into the backseat.

I sat beside Marco, my hand gripping the photograph in my pocket so tightly my knuckles ached.

The drive to South Philly was agonizingly slow. The rain pounded against the windshield. Marco stared out the window, turning the tarnished silver key over and over in his hand.

“Mr. Bellini,” I said quietly, keeping my voice low so Victor couldn’t hear over the radio.

Marco looked at me.

I pulled the photograph halfway out of my pocket, hiding it beneath the fold of my coat.

I slid it onto his lap.

Marco frowned. He glanced down.

He saw the damaged car.

Then he saw the man standing next to it.

Marco went completely rigid.

His breathing stopped for a fraction of a second. He didn’t gasp. He didn’t yell. The mafia boss inside him took absolute control.

He slowly flipped the photo over, seeing the bloodstains.

Then he looked at the back of Victor’s head in the driver’s seat.

Marco slipped the photo into his inside jacket pocket.

“Victor,” Marco said. His voice was perfectly calm.

“Yeah, Boss?”

“Pull over at the next gas station. I need coffee.”

Victor hit the turn signal. “Sure thing.”

The SUV pulled under the harsh fluorescent canopy of a closed gas station.

“Leave the car running,” Marco said.

Victor put it in park and stepped out into the rain to go inside the convenience store.

The moment the store door chimed shut, Marco climbed into the driver’s seat.

“Buckle up,” he ordered.

He slammed the SUV into gear and floored the gas pedal, leaving Victor stranded in the parking lot.

My chest heaved. “He killed your father.”

“I know,” Marco said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. “And he’s been standing next to me for fifteen years.”

Marco’s phone suddenly buzzed in the cup holder.

The caller ID read: CELESTE.

Marco answered it on speakerphone.

“Marco,” Celeste’s voice trembled with fear. “Victor didn’t put me in the guest wing. He locked me in the basement.”

Marco slammed on the brakes, pulling the SUV to the shoulder of the highway.

“Why?” Marco demanded.

“Because Victor didn’t act alone twenty years ago,” Celeste cried. “He was driving the car. But my father paid him to do it.”

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