Chapter 9 - The Ghost from the Past
The ink on the new clause wasn't even dry before the fragile peace of the Falcone estate was violently shattered.
It was a crisp Friday afternoon when the security gate intercom chimed. Adriano was away in New York overseeing a port acquisition, leaving Dileia at the mansion with Toby, who was home early from school with a mild fever.
Dileia stood in the grand foyer, watching as Mrs. Higgins gingerly unlatched the front door. On the stone step stood a man who did not belong in Weston. He wore a cheap, oil-stained leather jacket, had unkempt salt-and-pepper hair, and smelled overwhelmingly of stale tobacco and cheap bourbon.
His eyes were bloodshot, frantic, and unmistakably familiar.
"Dileia, sweetheart," Arthur Foster wheezed, stumbling across the threshold before Mrs. Higgins could block him. "Thank God you're still here. I heard the news. They said my little girl married a king. Well, a father deserves a piece of the kingdom, doesn't he?"
Dileia’s blood ran cold. Her father. The man who was supposed to have died three years ago in a drunken car crash off the Dorchester pier. The man whose supposed death had left her with a mountain of hidden debts and a freezing apartment.
"You're dead," Dileia whispered, backing away as if she were looking at a corpse risen from the grave. "We buried an empty casket because the police said—"
"The police didn't know what they were talking about," Arthur laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, his eyes darting hungrily around the opulent marble-and-gold foyer. "I had to lay low, Dilly. Creditors were breathing down my neck. But now? My daughter’s married to Adriano Falcone. The man prints money! Write me a check, sweetheart. Fifty grand. Just to get me back on my feet."
"You faked your death," Dileia said, her voice shaking not with grief, but with a sudden, boiling rage that eclipsed years of sorrow. "You ran away and left me and Toby to starve. You left us with loan sharks who nearly killed us, and now you walk back into my home demanding cash?"
"Watch your tone, girl!" Arthur snarled, his mask of jovial fatherhood slipping to reveal the abusive tyrant she remembered from childhood. He took a threatening step forward. "I'm your father! I made you!"
Before Arthur could raise a hand, a cold, metallic click echoed from the top of the grand staircase.
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"And I made her my wife," a voice cut through the air like a razor.
Arthur froze, looking up. Adriano stood at the top of the stairs. He hadn't gone to New York. His flight had been canceled due to weather, and he had walked into the house just in time to hear every word. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his gray eyes burned with a lethal, absolute fury.
