Chapter 2 - The Scent of Dry EarthThe ballroom around us remained filled with sixty guests laughing over crystal flutes of champagne, completely oblivious to the silence suffocating our small circle by the marble fireplace.
The paper in Adrian’s hand trembled slightly.
I stared at the narrow yellow strip. Even from three paces away, I could see the dark, slanting cursive.
Thomas Bennett.
My father.
He had died when I was ten years old in what the police had categorized as an industrial accident on the Brooklyn docks. He had fallen from a container gantry during a midnight shift. My mother had received a modest insurance settlement that disappeared within two years, leaving us with mounting debt and a drafty two-bedroom apartment in Queens.
“Claire.” Adrian’s voice was lower now, steady as a blade sliding back into its sheath. “Did your father ever work for the DeLuca family?”
“No, sir,” I answered, my throat tight. “He was an independent maritime cargo inspector. He worked the commercial piers.”
Adrian’s dark eyes locked onto mine. There was no pity in his expression, only a profound, terrifying focus.
“And yet his signature is written across the seal of my father’s private trust.”
Vanessa took half a step backward, her diamond-encrusted heels whispering against the parquet floor. Her face had shifted from pale to entirely bloodless.
“Adrian, darling, you are making a scene over an obsolete piece of scrap paper,” she murmured, her voice tight and high-pitched. “Our guests are waiting for the opening toast. My father has flown in from Chicago specifically to announce our joint real estate merger.”
Adrian didn't even turn his head.
“Your father can wait.”
He folded the yellow slip of paper and slid it into his tuxedo pocket, right beside the gold swallow brooch.
“Michael,” Adrian called out.
Michael stepped out from behind the velvet drapes near the terrace doors, a black leather tablet in his hands.
“The records from Queens Cemetery, boss,” Michael said, lowering his voice so only the three of us could hear. “The crypt of Donna Lucia DeLuca was opened twenty-six hours ago. Official maintenance work order submitted under the signature of Councilman Arthur Romano.”
Vanessa’s father.
A collective chill seemed to sweep through the room, though the chandeliers burned brightly and the orchestra played an upbeat Vivaldi concerto in the adjoining salon.
“A maintenance order?” Adrian asked softly.
“Reported structural masonry fissure on the northern lintel,” Michael reported. “The vault was unsealed at nine o'clock yesterday morning. The crew was on site for forty-five minutes. No municipal inspectors were notified.”
Adrian turned his head very slowly toward his bride-to-be.
The silence between them was heavier than a concrete burial slab.
“Your father sent men into my mother’s tomb yesterday, Vanessa.”
“Adrian, it was a structural precaution!” Vanessa stammered, raising her manicured hands in a frantic, desperate flutter. “The cemetery foundation was shifting due to the subway construction on Queens Boulevard! Daddy wanted to ensure your mother’s resting place was secure before our wedding!”
“Then why did his men open her casket?” Adrian asked.
Vanessa choked on her breath.
“And why did they remove the jewelry from her dead chest to bring it to your vanity table tonight?”
Nobody moved.
Two waiters carrying silver hors d’oeuvre platters froze near the buffet, sensing the lethal change in atmospheric pressure.
Adrian stepped closer to Vanessa. The sheer physical presence of the man—six feet three inches of tailored wool, broad shoulders, and cold Sicilian iron—seemed to swallow her whole.
“My mother didn't die of congestive heart failure eight months ago, did she, Vanessa?”
Vanessa’s lips parted in pure, unadulterated horror.
“Adrian... what are you saying...?”
“She died thirty-six hours after your father presented our syndicate board with the joint harbor redevelopment treaty,” Adrian whispered, his eyes blacker than midnight. “The treaty that required my signature, my mother’s release of her dowry trusts, and your family’s access to the Brooklyn container manifests.”
He looked down at me.
“Claire.”
“Yes, sir?”
“You’re leaving the service floor.”
May you like
“Mr. DeLuca, the catering manager—”
“You are not catering anything tonight,” he commanded gently, reaching out with one large, warm hand and taking my cold fingers from the tray. “Michael, bring my coat. We’re going to Queens.”
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