Chapter 10 - The Salt in the WoundsThe morning sun filtered through the leaded glass of the Castellano conservatory, casting fractured rainbow patterns across the white marble floor. Iris was on her knees, scrubbing a stubborn stain near the base of a towering Italian fern, when a shadow fell across her back.
"You missed a spot," a cold, clipped voice announced.
Mrs. Croft stood above her, her silver hair pulled back into a severe bun, her hands clasped tightly behind her apron.
Iris didn't look up immediately. She finished scrubbing the spot, rinsed her rag in the stainless-steel bucket, and then rose gracefully, wiping her palms on her gray apron. "Good morning, Mrs. Croft. The mud from the east garden tracks in every time the gardeners clear the snow."
"Spare me the property management report, Miss Day," Croft said, stepping closer. Her eyes flicked down to Iris’s wrist, where the long sleeve of her blouse had slipped down, revealing the fading purple imprint of a man’s fingers—the loan shark's parting gift. "Victor’s security detail intercepted a wire transfer this morning from an account registered to a shell corporation on Cicero Avenue. Forty-eight thousand dollars deposited directly into a local collection agency's escrow account, marking an account under the name Iris Day as settled."
Iris went completely rigid. "I didn't ask for charity."
"Charity?" Croft let out a dry, humorless laugh that sounded like dry leaves scraping across concrete. "In this house, Mr. Castellano doesn't do charity. He does acquisitions. When he finds out someone is bleeding on his perimeter, he stops the leak—permanently. Rocco and his men are currently being interrogated in an abandoned meatpacking plant off the canal. By nightfall, they won't remember what city they live in."
"I can take care of myself," Iris whispered, her jaw tightening.
"Can you?" Croft stepped directly into Iris’s personal space, her voice dropping to a fierce, protective hiss. "You think you’re the first one brought here to play savior? Three governesses tried to coax a sound out of that boy before you. One was a child psychologist from Johns Hopkins; the second was a nun from the Archdiocese; the third was a soprano from the Lyric Opera who thought lullabies could crack a dead boy's heart."
Croft grabbed Iris’s chin with fingers that were surprisingly strong, forcing her to look up.
"They all failed. And two of them left through those iron gates with broken bones because they thought they could use Victor’s grief as leverage to climb into his bed. If you’re here for the half-billion-dollar empire, Miss Day, save yourself the dental work. Victor doesn't love. He destroys."
Iris didn't blink. She looked straight into the older woman's clouded, veteran eyes. "I didn't come here for his money, Mrs. Croft. And I didn't come here to marry a mob boss. I came here because when a child stops talking, you don't need a speech therapist. You need someone who knows what it sounds like when the world goes dark."
For a long, tense second, Croft held her gaze. Then, slowly, the estate manager released her grip, adjusted her apron, and stepped back.
"Show me," Croft muttered under her breath.
May you like
"What?"
"Show me if you’re different from the others. Because if you’re not... Victor won't even wait for the sun to go down."
