Chapter 2 - The Skeletons of the West WingElena stood near the window, watching the swirling snow batter the reinforced glass outside while I paced the length of the study, the note clutched tightly in my hand.
Six years ago. The ghosts of that winter night still haunted every brick of this estate. It was the night a car bomb meant for my younger brother had detonated outside our downtown headquarters, taking his life and leaving me with scars that ran far deeper than the jagged burns across my left shoulder. The media called it a syndicate turf war. The police closed the file due to lack of evidence. But I knew the truth: it was an inside job. Someone within the DeLuca inner circle had sold us out to the Russian syndicate, and for six years, I had hunted them in the shadows while maintaining an illusion of absolute control.
Now, someone was trying to convince Elena—and by extension, anyone she might talk to—that she had uncovered the secret. But Elena didn't know anything about syndicate hits or multi-million-dollar betrayals. She was just a girl working ninety hours a week to pay off her father's medical debts, desperate enough to take a low-level cleaning job in a house everyone in Chicago whispered about with dread.
"Who hired you, Elena?" I asked suddenly, stopping my pacing and turning to face her.
She flinched, turning away from the window with wide, defensive eyes. "The agency. Apex Employment Services downtown. Why? Do you think I'm a spy?"
"In my line of work, everyone is a suspect until proven otherwise," I replied bluntly, walking closer. I towered over her by a head, my dark eyes searching her pale, exhausted face for any trace of deceit. "You were vetted by my human resources manager, Marcus. But Marcus has been with me for ten years. If someone planted you here to dig up the past, they chose someone very convincing."
"I needed a job!" Elena snapped back, a sudden flash of fierce, desperate pride overriding her fear. For the first time, she didn't cower. She stood her ground, her chin lifting defiantly despite the fever shaking her frame. "I don't care about your mafia history, Mr. DeLuca! I don't care about your family's feuds or whatever happened six years ago! I needed thirty dollars an hour to keep my father's oxygen tanks filled, and this house was the only place that didn't run a credit check on my background!"
I stared at her, caught off guard by the sudden burst of fire. Most people whimpered when I cornered them. Elena fought back.
Before I could answer, a sharp knock echoed at the bedroom door.
May you like
"Boss," Marcus’s voice called out from the hallway, tense and urgent. "We have a situation in the security room. Someone tampered with the west wing surveillance loop between 2:00 AM and 4:00 AM. We lost forty minutes of footage."
My eyes locked onto Elena’s, then back to the red candle wax on the floor. The trap had just sprung.
