Chapter 2 - Whispers in the Service WingBy noon, the news of the confrontation in the conservatory had swept through Corsaro House like wildfire through dry timber.
In the subterranean laundry and supply wing, Mrs. Tunney stood over a massive folding table, her stiff posture rigid with disapproval as she aggressively smoothed out a linen tablecloth.
“You crossed a line this morning, Etta,” Mrs. Tunney whispered sharply, not looking up from her work. “Everyone upstairs is talking about it. Rafe is furious, and when Rafe is furious, heads roll in the lower divisions. You’re just a cleaner. You’re supposed to keep your head down, dust the cornices, and pretend you’re deaf and blind.”
I continued sorting the gray microfiber cloths into color-coded bins, my movements methodical and calm. “I locked a door when asked, Mrs. Tunney. That’s all.”
“That’s not all, and you know it,” she snapped, finally looking at me with eyes narrowed in suspicion. “For nineteen months, Emilio has been a ghost ready for the cemetery plot. Suddenly, because you leave orange peels and fresh air in his rooms, he’s challenging his own flesh and blood over corporate boardrooms? What kind of game are you playing?”
“I clean rooms,” I replied smoothly, tying off a laundry bag. “Nothing more.”
Before Mrs. Tunney could press further, the heavy swinging door from the main kitchen burst open. One of the junior chefs hurried in, his face pale.
“Have you heard?” the young man whispered, his voice trembling slightly. “Rafe just called an emergency meeting with the heads of security and the legal team. He’s auditing every single personnel file in the estate, starting with the service staff. He thinks someone is whispering advice into Emilio’s ear.”
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Mrs. Tunney glared directly at me. “There it is. You’ve poked a sleeping bear, Etta. If Rafe finds out you’ve been spending extra hours in Emilio’s private wing—or worse, that he actually listens to you—you won’t just be fired. You’ll vanish.”
I didn't answer. I hoisted the laundry bag over my shoulder and walked out into the corridor, my mind racing. Rafe wasn't just paranoid; he was desperate. And desperation in a man like Rafe Corsaro always preceded violence.
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