Chapter 2 - The Traitor Within
The mention of an inside job sent a cold shiver down my spine. For six years, I had managed the domestic staff of fifty people in this house—cooks, maids, gardeners, handymen. Every single one of them had undergone background checks that cost more than my annual salary. To think a Chicago syndicate had planted a ghost right under my nose made my stomach turn.
“Who hired the temporary kitchen staff for the gala?” Dominic asked, his cold gray eyes locking onto Dante.
“Milo,” Dante replied, swallowing hard. “Milo Ricci handled the agency contracts out of Brooklyn.”
Dominic didn’t blink. “Bring him down.”
Ten minutes later, Milo was dragged into the room by two enormous bodyguards. He was trembling, sweat pouring down his forehead, soaking his designer shirt. He fell to his knees on the concrete floor, babbling apologies before Dominic had even spoken a word.
“Mr. Moretti, I swear to God, I didn’t know! The agency sent recommendations, they had clean papers—!”
“Look at the screen, Milo,” Dominic interrupted, his tone chillingly soft. He gestured to the paused frame of the man with the silver signet ring. “Recognize the ring?”
Milo stared at the monitor, his eyes widening in pure horror. He opened his mouth, but only a dry rasp came out.
“You skipped the biometric clearance for three of the temporary dishwashers because their paperwork was rushed,” Dominic stated, stepping closer until he towered over the shivering man. “Which one of them gave you the envelope, Milo? Was it fifty thousand? A hundred?”
“It was debt!” Milo shrieked, tears streaming down his face. “They bought my gambling markers from the docks, Mr. Moretti! They said if I didn't let one man in through the service bay blind spot, they’d break my legs and send my kids to foster care!”
“Names,” Dominic whispered.
“Marco... they called him Marco. He’s already gone, he slipped out in the guest van right after the cake was brought in!”
Dominic didn’t flinch. He signaled to Dante with a subtle twitch of his fingers. “Find Marco. Bring him to me breathing. And as for Milo—” Dominic looked down at the cowering man as if he were a bug on his shoe. “Put him in the lower cellar until morning. We’ll deal with him when I have time.”
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As Milo was hauled away screaming, Dominic turned back to the monitors. He looked exhausted, the lines around his eyes deepening. He glanced at me, standing rigidly by the door.
“Go back to your daughter, Clara,” he said quietly. “She saved my son’s life tonight. That means she—and you—belong to this house in a way no contract can ever write. Lock your door. Nobody gets past my guard tonight.”
