Chapter 2 - The Company My Dead Husband Still Owned
I did not remember walking to the kitchen.
I remembered Mia eating scrambled eggs.
I remembered Rosa, the pastry cook, slipping strawberries onto her plate when she thought I was not looking.
I remembered staring at the name NOAH DAWSON on Renzo’s tablet until the letters stopped looking real.
My husband had been dead for three years.
According to the state registry, his company had opened nineteen months ago.
Renzo sat across from me at the staff breakfast table.
Vincent stood by the window.
Francesca was no longer in the room.
That frightened me more than if she had stayed and shouted.
“Who filed it?” I asked.
Renzo shook his head.
“Online registration. We’re pulling the underlying documents.”
“I never signed anything.”
“The company isn’t in your name.”
“It’s in Noah’s.”
“Yes.”
“He’s dead.”
“I know.”
Mia looked up from her eggs.
“Daddy is in heaven.”
Vincent’s eyes moved to her.
“Yes,” I said softly. “Daddy is in heaven.”
She seemed satisfied and returned to breakfast.
Adults did not have that luxury.
Vincent asked, “Where did Noah work?”
I looked at him.
“You already know.”
His expression tightened.
“Tell me anyway.”
“Castalano Development. Hudson Terrace renovation.”
Renzo stopped typing.
Vincent frowned.
“What did he do?”
“Safety coordinator.”
“I was told he was a subcontractor.”
“He was.”
“How did he die?”
I hated the question.
Not because I had not answered it a hundred times.
Because I suddenly understood the answer might have been written by people in Vincent’s house.
“He fell from a service stairwell.”
“On site?”
“Yes.”
“During working hours?”
“After.”
That was what the report said.
Noah had supposedly returned for his phone, entered a dark stairwell alone, and fallen two floors.
I had been twenty-six.
Mia was four months old.
I had believed the police because grief left no room for suspicion.
Vincent looked at Renzo.
“I want the original incident file.”
“Already requesting it.”
I laughed.
Both men looked at me.
“You say that like you own the city archive.”
Vincent held my gaze.
“I own less than people think.”
“That is not reassuring.”
“No.”
At least he did not pretend.
Mia pushed a piece of toast toward Vincent.
“You want some?”
He looked at it.
Then at me.
I shrugged.
He took the toast.
Renzo watched the exchange with open fascination.
Mia said, “Say thank you.”
Vincent paused.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
The terrifying head of the Castalano family ate half a triangle of buttered toast because my toddler had instructed him to.
I might have laughed if my dead husband’s name had not been sitting on a screen six feet away.
An hour later, Vincent called a meeting in the downstairs library.
Eleven household employees came in one by one.
A gardener.
Two cooks.
Four housekeepers.
A driver.
A laundry assistant.
An older woman named June who had served the Castalanos for twenty-two years.
Francesca arrived last.
Vincent stood at the head of the table.
“No one is losing their job for speaking honestly.”
Francesca said, “That is an irresponsible promise.”
He looked at her.
“It is mine to make.”
Then he asked a simple question.
“Who has had wages deducted without receiving a written explanation?”
Every hand went up.
Mine last.
June began crying.
Francesca looked disgusted.
“Oh, please.”
Vincent turned.
June wiped her face.
“They took nine thousand from me last year.”
“For what?” Vincent asked.
“My grandson broke a vase.”
Francesca said, “An eighteenth-century—”
Vincent lifted a finger.
She stopped.
June continued.
“The vase was insured. Mr. Renzo told me once.”
Renzo looked stunned.
“It was.”
The room changed.
People started talking.
Uniform fees for uniforms never replaced.
Meal deductions for employees who brought food from home.
Housing charges for rooms no one occupied.
Cash advances no one remembered taking.
Francesca had created a private economy inside the estate.
Small amounts.
Small enough to keep each person embarrassed and isolated.
Together, they were enormous.
Vincent listened.
He did not defend his ignorance.
That mattered.
Then June said, “Noah knew.”
My body went cold.
I looked at her.
“What?”
She pressed both hands together.
“Your husband.”
“How?”
“He asked me about the deductions.”
“When?”
“A week before he died.”
The room disappeared around me.
“Noah never told me.”
“He said he wanted proof first.”
Francesca stood.
“This is becoming obscene.”
Vincent looked at her.
“Sit.”
“I will not be interrogated by servants.”
The words hung in the room.
For the first time, nobody lowered their eyes.
Francesca realized it too late.
Vincent’s voice became quiet.
“They are employees.”
She laughed.
“You want to pretend your father built this family by asking permission?”
“My father is dead.”
“And you are becoming sentimental.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“No. I am becoming curious.”
Francesca’s face shifted.
He asked, “Why is Noah Dawson’s name attached to a company receiving household payroll deductions?”
“I do not know.”
“Renzo?”
Renzo looked at his tablet.
“The account receiving the funds was opened at a bank used by Castalano Development.”
Francesca’s lips tightened.
“Coincidence.”
Renzo continued.
“Authorized contact: Matteo Rinaldi.”
Vincent went still.
Francesca’s son.
His stepbrother.
Head of construction operations.
The man who had supervised Hudson Terrace when Noah died.
I could hear my heartbeat.
Vincent asked, “Where is Matteo?”
Francesca stared at him.
“He is in Boston.”
Renzo shook his head.
“No.”
Everyone turned.
“His company car entered the estate garage at six twelve this morning.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
Francesca looked toward the door.
Too quickly.
A floorboard creaked in the hallway.
Vincent moved first.
He opened the library door.
The corridor was empty.
But on the carpet lay a folder.
Old.
Brown.
My name written across the front.
CLAIRE DAWSON — SETTLEMENT.
I walked toward it.
Vincent said, “Don’t touch it.”
“It has my name.”
“I know.”
I picked it up anyway.
Inside was a copy of a settlement agreement.
Two hundred and fifty thousand dollars.
A signature at the bottom.
Mine.
Except I had never seen the document.
Never received the money.
Never signed away any claim regarding Noah’s death.
I looked at Francesca.
She had stopped pretending to be calm.
Then a child’s voice came from the doorway.
Mia.
She pointed past us.
“That man took Mommy’s picture.”
We turned.
At the far end of the hall, a man in a gray suit disappeared around the corner.
Renzo started after him.
Vincent grabbed his arm.
“No.”
Renzo stared.
“What?”
Vincent looked at me.
Then at Mia.
“Lock the estate.”
May you like
Francesca went pale.
And for the first time, I realized somebody had been watching me long before Mia ever wandered into Vincent Castalano’s study.
