Chapter 1 - The Face Nobody Was Supposed to Copy
Vincent crouched until his eyes were level with Mia’s.
She looked at him.
He looked at her.
Then, with the solemn concentration of a tiny actress preparing for opening night, Mia pulled her eyebrows down, flattened her mouth, folded her arms, and tilted her head again.
Vincent stared.
“Do I really look like that?”
Mia considered him.
“Worse.”
Renzo choked.
One of the security guards turned toward the fireplace and coughed into his fist. The other made the mistake of smiling.
Vincent slowly looked at both men.
Their faces became stone.
Mia copied that too.
This time Renzo lost the battle. A laugh escaped him.
I stood in the doorway wishing I could dissolve into the wallpaper.
“Mia,” I whispered. “Sweetheart, come here.”
She did not move.
Vincent looked at me.
I had worked in his house for nine months and had never once seen him look confused. Irritated, yes. Dangerous, often. Bored, constantly. Confused was new.
“What is your name?” he asked me.
“Claire Dawson, sir.”
“You work upstairs.”
“Housekeeping.”
“And this is your daughter.”
“Yes.”
“Who is not supposed to be here.”
My stomach dropped.
“Yes.”
Mia leaned toward him and whispered, loudly enough for everyone to hear, “Mommy said you were in Man-hat-an.”
Renzo covered his mouth.
Vincent closed his eyes for one second.
When he opened them, the corner of his mouth had changed.
Not a smile.
Almost.
“I was.”
Mia nodded as though his answer confirmed a serious business matter.
“Then you came back.”
“So I did.”
I stepped into the study.
“My babysitter got sick. It won’t happen again. I can finish the east rooms and leave. You can take the day from my pay.”
Vincent’s expression sharpened.
“Why would I take the day from your pay?”
“Because I broke the rule.”
“Who told you that was the penalty?”
I hesitated.
Everyone in that house knew the answer.
Mrs. Francesca Rinaldi ran domestic staff with the efficiency of a prison warden. She was Vincent’s stepmother, the second wife of his late father, and the woman who had hired me.
“Mrs. Rinaldi.”
Vincent stood.
Mia looked up at him.
Then she looked at me.
“Mommy cries on payday.”
The room went silent.
My heart stopped.
“Mia.”
She frowned at me.
“You do.”
Vincent’s gaze moved from her to me.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing.”
Mia was three. Three-year-olds had no respect for strategic retreat.
“That lady takes Mommy’s money.”
I wanted to die.
Vincent became completely still.
“What lady?”
Mia pointed toward the hallway.
As if summoned by catastrophe itself, Francesca Rinaldi appeared in the doorway.
She was sixty-two, elegant even at nine in the morning, silver-blonde hair pinned perfectly at the nape of her neck. She wore cream trousers, low heels, and the expression of a woman who believed disorder was a personal insult.
Her eyes landed on Mia.
Then on me.
“Claire.”
One word.
I had heard it before deductions, schedule changes, and warnings.
Francesca looked at Vincent.
“I apologize. I was not informed the child had been brought inside.”
Vincent’s voice stayed calm.
“What money do you take from Claire?”
Francesca blinked.
“Excuse me?”
“Mia says her mother cries on payday.”
“Mia is three.”
“She also says you take her mother’s money.”
Francesca gave me a look that promised consequences later.
“Domestic employees have standard deductions. Uniform replacement, staff meals, transportation, breakage.”
Vincent turned toward me.
“How much?”
I should have lied.
Nine months in that estate had trained me to survive by making myself smaller.
Then Mia took my hand.
I looked down at the pink marker stain on her thumb.
Rent was due in four days.
The electric company had sent a red notice.
Mia’s shoes pinched her toes because I kept telling myself they could last one more month.
“Between two hundred and three hundred dollars a week,” I said.
Renzo’s tablet lowered.
Vincent stared at Francesca.
“Per week?”
“It varies.”
“For what?”
Francesca’s chin lifted.
“Claire has damaged linens. She has eaten meals beyond her staff allowance. She has required schedule accommodations.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
Everyone looked at me.
I was already fired. I could feel it.
So I kept going.
“I bring my own lunch.”
Francesca’s eyes hardened.
“Claire.”
“And my uniforms came used.”
“Enough.”
Vincent spoke.
Not loudly.
Francesca stopped.
He looked at Renzo.
“Pull Claire’s payroll records. Nine months.”
Francesca stepped forward.
“Vincent, household accounts are my responsibility.”
“They were.”
The change in tense landed harder than a shout.
Mia tugged Vincent’s trouser leg.
He looked down.
“You’re making the face again.”
Renzo turned away.
Even I made a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob.
Vincent looked at Mia.
Then, unbelievably, he exaggerated the scowl. Lowered eyebrows. Straight mouth. Chin tilted.
Mia gasped.
“No. Too much.”
The guard by the fireplace laughed out loud.
For three seconds, the most feared man I had ever met stood in his study making angry faces at my daughter while grown men tried not to embarrass themselves.
Then Francesca said, “This is ridiculous.”
The warmth vanished.
Vincent stood upright.
“No. What is ridiculous is that a woman working full time in my house cannot afford emergency childcare while someone is removing a third of her wages.”
Francesca’s face flushed.
“You know nothing about managing domestic staff.”
“That appears to be true.”
He looked at me.
“Claire, take Mia to breakfast.”
“I should work.”
“You should feed your child.”
“I brought crackers.”
His eyes dropped to my purse.
A sleeve of crackers stuck out beside a broken blue crayon.
Something in his face changed.
“Real breakfast.”
I swallowed.
“I don’t take charity.”
“Good. It comes out of the salary I apparently failed to make sure you received.”
That was different.
I did not know how to answer.
Renzo’s tablet chimed.
He looked at the screen.
Then at Vincent.
“What?”
Renzo did not speak immediately.
Vincent’s voice hardened.
“Renzo.”
“There are deductions on eleven household employees.”
Francesca said, “I already explained—”
Renzo continued.
“Totaled over the last eighteen months, it’s just under one hundred and forty-eight thousand dollars.”
No one moved.
Vincent looked at his stepmother.
“Where did the money go?”
Francesca’s face became unreadable.
“Operating expenses.”
Renzo shook his head.
“No.”
Vincent turned.
“What do you mean, no?”
“The deductions were transferred out of household payroll.”
“To where?”
Renzo rotated the tablet.
A company name appeared on the screen.
DAWSON SAFETY CONSULTING.
My last name.
I stopped breathing.
Vincent looked at me.
“Claire?”
I stared at the words.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
Renzo tapped the corporate registration.
The owner’s name appeared.
NOAH DAWSON.
My husband.
My dead husband.
The man who had been buried three years earlier after a fall at a Castalano-owned construction site.
Mia squeezed my fingers.
“Mommy?”
I could not answer.
Vincent’s eyes moved to Francesca.
May you like
For the first time that morning, she looked afraid.
And I understood that my missing wages were no longer the worst thing hidden inside that house.
