Chapter 3 - The Conversation Behind Mahogany
I carried Nora through the echoing corridors of the west wing.
The mansion felt like an empty museum, devoid of warmth, filled only with expensive relics that meant nothing in the face of human suffering.
As we approached the double mahogany doors of my private study, I heard the faint, measured cadence of a man's voice.
It was Harland.
He was speaking on the telephone.
His tone wasn't the subservient, impeccably polished British accent he used when presenting me with the monthly household ledgers.
It was sharp, arrogant, and dripping with street-level malice.
I signaled Nora to remain quiet by placing a gentle finger against my lips.
She nodded solemnly, tucking her head further beneath the heavy cotton towel.
I leaned closer to the solid wood door, listening through the antique brass keyhole.
“I don't give a damn about her temperature, Raymond,” Harland was saying into the receiver, followed by the clink of crystal against glass.
He had poured himself a glass of my thirty-year-old single malt scotch from the private decanter on my desk.
“The girl has thirty-six hours left on her probation,” Harland continued, laughing coldly.
“If she isn't back on her feet by tomorrow morning, I'm logging her as an abandoned contract.”
“Her security deposit on the cottage annex will be forfeited directly into the maintenance reserve, just like the last three maids.”
A pause followed as the person on the other end of the line spoke.
Harland chuckled, a sickening, phlegmy sound.
“Of course Vance doesn't know.”
“Luca Vance hasn't set foot in the domestic wing since his father died ten years ago.”
“The man lives in private jets, boardroom suites, and foreign hotels.”
“He signs whatever operational requisition I put under his nose as long as the floors are waxed and his shirts are pressed.”
“He thinks I'm his guardian angel because my references came from the Duke of Westmorland's former estate.”
“He has no idea that the Duke fired me for embezzling from the horse stables twelve years ago.”
“By the time he figures out that three hundred thousand dollars has leaked through the catering dummy corporations, I'll have my residency cleared in Cyprus.”
I stood outside that door, every muscle in my jaw locking like tempered steel.
Seven years.
For seven years, I had treated Harland Thorne like a trusted member of my extended household.
I had given him an annual bonus of eighty thousand dollars.
I had paid for his private health insurance.
I had written a recommendation for his daughter to attend an elite boarding school in Massachusetts.
And all the while, he viewed my trust as nothing more than the blind stupidity of an absentee landlord.
He had turned my home into a private extortion racket.
He was bleeding my staff dry, skimming off my operating budget, and terrorizing a mother and child while living off my generosity.
“Raymond, have the van ready behind the service gate at nine o'clock tonight,” Harland commanded into the phone.
“The immigrant girl has some papers in her trunk that she claims prove her husband's death benefits were never paid out by Vance's corporate insurance.”
“She tried to show them to me yesterday like a naive idiot.”
“If Vance ever sees those audit sheets, he'll realize his former CFO settled the wrongful death suit for two million dollars and kept the escrow account in my third-party holding company.”
“I need that trunk cleared out before the morning sun hits the driveway.”
“Throw her belongings into the public incinerator on Route 7.”
“If she complains, call county immigration and tell them an undocumented squatter is trespassing on private corporate property.”
My vision blurred with pure adrenaline.
Elena's husband hadn't just died in an accident.
His insurance settlement—two million dollars intended to secure his widow and newborn baby for the rest of their lives—had been intercepted, laundered, and pocketed by Harland and his syndicate.
And to keep Elena from ever discovering the truth, Harland had kept her trapped in a state of manufactured poverty, terrified of deportation, working as a maid in the very house owned by the man who had authorized that settlement in the first place.
I shifted Nora into my left arm.
With my right hand, I gripped the heavy brass handle of the mahogany door.
May you like
I did not knock.
I kicked the door open with a single, thunderous blow that shattered the antique latch bolt clean out of its carved oak frame.
