Chapter 2 - The Shadow of Marcus Vance
The morning sun revealed the extent of the carnage left in the basement corridor.
I spent two frantic hours scrubbing the exterior stone steps with bleach, praying the winter wind would mask the chemical sting before the head housekeeper completed her rounds.
By eight in the morning, the estate was crawling with black sedans and men wearing heavy tactical windbreakers.
I kept my head down, pushing my metal cleaning cart through the grand hallway on the second floor.
The Costello mansion was built like an eighteenth-century fortress, filled with Renaissance oil paintings, vaulted ceilings, and imported Italian marble.
Yet today, every corner of the house smelled of tension, whispered conspiracies, and impending violence.
“Norah!” a sharp voice barked from the library threshold.
I stopped in my tracks, my hands gripping the rubber handle of the cart until my fingernails dug into the plastic.
Marcus Vance stood leaning against the doorframe, a lit cigarette dangling between his scarred lips despite the house rules against indoor smoking.
Marcus was Arthur Costello’s enforcer, his cousin, and the son of the old man Arthur had executed just hours ago.
He was tall, wiry, with sunken eyes that looked like dead coals set into hollow sockets.
Everyone in the servant quarters knew Marcus was a sadist who took pleasure in breaking bones over missing ledgers.
“Yes, Mr. Vance?” I answered, keeping my voice utterly devoid of emotion.
“You cleaned the master suite this morning?” he asked, stepping slowly toward me, his leather boots squeaking on the polished parquet.
“Not yet, sir,” I replied, staring fixedly at the brass buttons of his vest.
“Mrs. Gable assigned me to the west gallery and the library first.”
Marcus blew a thick plume of gray smoke into my face.
I did not flinch, though the nicotine burned my nostrils.
“Arthur did not sleep in his quarters last night,” Marcus said, his voice dropping into a dangerous, rhythmic purr.
“His driver said he left the warehouse on 47th Street around two in the morning, driving his own car.”
“The vehicle is parked in the lower courtyard with the passenger door unlocked and blood on the steering wheel.”
My pulse roared like an avalanche in my ears, but my expression remained carved from ice.
“The courtyard was empty when I took out the kitchen trash at six, Mr. Vance.”
Marcus tilted his head, his cold gaze scanning my face, my neck, and then descending down to my hands.
“You have a small cut on your thumb, little bird,” he whispered, reaching out with a gloved finger to trace my knuckle.
I pulled my hand back, tucking it under my linen apron.
“A broken glass in the pantry sink,” I lied effortlessly.
“I can bandage it if it offends you.”
Marcus smiled, a grotesque display of yellowed teeth that failed to reach his eyes.
“My father disappeared last night, Norah.”
“Arthur claims he sent him to Florida to oversee the yacht charters.”
“Does Arthur strike you as a man who sends old friends to Florida in the middle of a November thunderstorm?”
“I don't know Mr. Costello, sir,” I said, looking him straight in the eyes.
“I only empty his wastebaskets.”
Marcus leaned in closer, his sour breath washing over my cheek.
“If I find out my cousin is hiding something from the family, whoever is helping him will be tied to a radiator in the cellar.”
“And I don’t use first-aid kits, little bird.”
“I use pliers.”
Before I could answer, heavy footsteps echoed down the grand staircase.
Arthur Costello appeared at the landing, dressed in a pristine charcoal bespoke three-piece suit that completely concealed the heavy bandages on his forearm.
His hair was slicked back with pomade, his chin freshly shaved, his demeanor radiating imperial authority.
“Marcus,” Arthur’s deep voice boomed through the corridor, carrying the weight of an iron hammer.
Marcus straightened instantly, his smirk vanishing behind a mask of respectful deference.
“Boss,” Marcus replied, turning around with his hands politely visible.
“We were just discussing the supply deliveries for the weekend.”
Arthur descended the stairs, his cold gray eyes locking onto Marcus with lethal intensity.
“The supply deliveries are managed by the estate manager, not my chief of security.”
Arthur stopped two feet from Marcus, towering over him, radiating an aura of suffocating menace.
“Unless you are looking for extra chores, cousin?”
“Not at all,” Marcus murmured, his jaw clenching tightly.
“Just making sure the house is secure after last night’s… complications.”
“My father's flight landed in Miami an hour ago,” Arthur lied without a single twitch in his facial muscles.
“He asked me to remind you to review the shipping manifests for the Calumet River basin.”
“Get to work.”
Marcus bowed his head slightly, cast a venomous side-glance at me, and strode down the hall toward the west wing.
Once the sound of Marcus’s boots faded, Arthur remained standing before me.
He did not look at me.
His gaze was fixed on an oil painting of an Italian landscape hanging on the wall behind my head.
“The ring,” Arthur whispered, his lips barely moving.
“Did you hide it?”
“It is buried in the coal pile behind the boiler,” I whispered back, continuing to wipe the brass railing with a rag.
“Good,” Arthur said quietly.
“Keep your eyes on Marcus.”
“He knows his father is dead.”
“He is looking for the blade that cut me to prove I pulled the trigger myself.”
“If he finds it, the entire syndicate will vote to strip my command before sunset.”
“Why don't you kill him?” I asked, the boldness of my own words surprising me.
Arthur glanced down at me, a flicker of that broken, exhausted man from the cellar flashing behind his cold eyes.
“Because in our world, Norah, you do not execute your cousin without evidence of treason.”
“If I strike first, the commission will turn against me.”
“I need him to make the first move.”
“And when he does?” I asked.
Arthur leaned down, his voice chilling the air between us.
“When he does, you will be the only witness that keeps me alive.”
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“Now take your cart and go to the master bedroom.”
“There are blood-soaked garments hidden in the laundry chute that need to burn before noon.”
