Chapter 3 - Blood on the Marble
The kitchen of Fairhaven Manor was larger than most restaurants,
gleaming with stainless steel and pristine white marble,
a place where we rarely spent time before Eleanor arrived.
She guided me to one of the tall barstools,
pressed gently on my shoulder until I sat down,
and immediately went to the massive oak cabinet where she kept the first-aid kit.
I watched her move,
her actions precise,
efficient,
showing no hesitation as she pulled out antiseptic,
cotton pads,
and bandages.
"This is going to sting,"
she warned,
soaking a cotton pad with a clear liquid,
and stepping close to me,
close enough that I could smell the rain clinging to her hair.
I braced myself,
gripping the edge of the marble island,
but her touch was incredibly gentle,
dabbing at the split skin above my eyebrow with terrifying care.
"Why did you do it?"
she asked quietly,
not looking at my eyes,
focusing entirely on the wound.
"Some guys from St. Jude's Academy were running their mouths,"
I muttered,
wincing slightly as the alcohol bit into my flesh,
"They said our family was nothing but a bunch of glorified thugs,
said my mother was weak for leaving us."
Eleanor's hand stopped moving for a fraction of a second,
a tiny pause that spoke volumes,
before she resumed cleaning the blood away.
"And you thought breaking their jaws would prove them wrong?"
she asked,
her voice completely neutral,
lacking the judgment I was so used to hearing.
"It made them shut up,"
I fired back,
my anger flaring,
the familiar heat of rage bubbling in my chest.
Before she could respond,
the heavy oak doors of the kitchen swung open with a violent crash,
and my second oldest brother,
Ezra,
stumbled into the room.
Ezra was the wild card of the family,
nineteen years old,
reckless,
and possessing a smile that could talk a viper out of its venom,
but tonight,
he wasn't smiling.
He leaned heavily against the doorframe,
his usually perfect blonde hair matted with sweat,
his breathing ragged,
and his left hand clutching his side.
Blood,
dark and terrifyingly thick,
was seeping through his expensive silk shirt,
dripping slowly onto the immaculate floor.
"Well,"
Ezra gasped,
flashing a pained,
crooked grin at Eleanor,
"It seems you have a busy night,
sweetheart."
I jumped out of my seat,
panic seizing my throat,
but Eleanor was already moving.
She didn't scream,
she didn't panic,
she simply dropped the cotton pad,
rushed across the room,
and caught Ezra just as his knees gave out.
"Kaelen,
help me get him to the table,"
she ordered,
her voice suddenly sharp,
cutting through my paralyzing fear like a knife.
Together,
we dragged Ezra's heavy,
slumping body onto the long wooden dining table,
sweeping expensive crystal centerpieces onto the floor,
where they shattered into a million pieces.
Eleanor ripped Ezra's shirt open without hesitation,
exposing a nasty,
jagged knife wound near his ribs,
the sight of it making my stomach turn violently.
"Don't call a doctor,"
Ezra choked out,
grabbing her wrist with bloody fingers,
his eyes wild with panic,
"If the old man finds out,
he'll kill me."
"I'm not calling anyone,"
Eleanor said grimly,
pulling a clean towel from the counter and pressing it hard against his wound,
causing him to scream in agony.
"Hold this,"
she commanded me,
forcing my hands onto the blood-soaked towel,
"Push down as hard as you can,
do not let go."
I pressed down,
my hands trembling,
my heart hammering against my ribs,
while Eleanor ran to the pantry,
returning seconds later with a sewing kit,
a bottle of strong vodka,
and a fresh roll of gauze.
"You're going to stitch him up?"
I asked,
my voice cracking in horror.
"It wouldn't be the first time,"
she murmured,
pouring the alcohol directly over the open wound,
ignoring Ezra's string of creative,
violent curses.
As I stood there,
my hands covered in my brother's blood,
May you like
watching a housekeeper skillfully sew a mafia heir back together,
I realized that Eleanor Hargrove was not who she claimed to be.
