“I Have a Date Tonight,” the Young Maid Told Her Mafia Boss

The first was to his attorney.

The second was to Gideon Mercer.

The third was to the head of financial compliance at Russo Holdings.

By eleven twenty, three people had received instructions to preserve every surviving record connected to the Crestline warehouse fire.

By eleven thirty, Dominic had ordered that no documents be destroyed or altered.

And by midnight, he had learned something that made him question the history of his own family.

The transfer authorization bearing his signature had been entered into the company's accounting system six days after the fire.

Not before it.

Not on the night Peter Hayes died.

Six days afterward.

Harper sat in a leather armchair opposite Dominic's desk, listening as he spoke with his attorney.

Rachel Pierce had represented the Russo family for nearly a decade.

She was careful, precise, and rarely impressed by her most powerful client's temper.

“Dominic,” she said over the speakerphone, “I need you to understand that a suspicious accounting record doesn't establish who created it.”

“I know.”

“Then don't confront your uncle tonight.”

Dominic stared at the photograph of Carlo standing beside Peter Hayes.

“He approved the transfer.”

“His name appears on an approval form. That is not the same thing.”

“Rachel—”

“And I mean it when I say preserve the originals. If this turns into a criminal investigation, we need a defensible chain of custody.”

Harper watched Dominic's expression.

She had seen him furious before.

But this was different.

His anger was controlled.

Cold.

Dangerously quiet.

“Fine,” he said. “Have your team review the documents.”

Rachel paused.

“Who else knows about this?”

Dominic glanced at Harper.

“Miss Hayes.”

“Your housekeeper?”

“Yes.”

Rachel was silent for a moment.

Then she said, “Dominic, she needs her own attorney.”

Harper straightened.

“I can hear you.”

“Good,” Rachel replied. “Then please understand that whatever your relationship with Mr. Russo, your interests may not be identical. Your father's name is on these documents. You deserve independent advice.”

Harper looked at Dominic.

He nodded.

“She's right.”

That surprised her.

Dominic had a reputation for refusing to relinquish control.

Yet now, with something deeply personal at stake, he was telling her not to depend entirely on him.

“I don't have the money for a lawyer,” Harper admitted.

Rachel answered gently.

“There are attorneys who take whistleblower matters on contingency, and organizations that assist families affected by corporate misconduct. I can provide a referral list without choosing someone for you.”

“Thank you.”

Dominic ended the call.

The room fell quiet.

For several moments, the only sound came from the grandfather clock.

Tick.

Then Harper said, “You believed my father was guilty, didn't you?”

Dominic didn't answer immediately.

“When I heard about the case years ago, yes.”

She looked down.

“Why?”

“Because the reports said he'd diverted company money. I was running our western operations then. My father told me the matter was being handled.”

“And you believed him?”

“Yes.”

Harper swallowed.

“He died before he could defend himself.”

“I know.”

“No, you don't.”

Her voice suddenly sharpened.

“You don't know what it feels like to have people whisper when you walk into a grocery store. You don't know what it's like to hear your father's name on the news and realize everyone thinks the man who raised you was a criminal.”

Dominic remained silent.

Harper stood.

“My mother stopped going to church because people kept asking whether she'd known about the money. My father's old friends avoided us. We couldn't afford to keep our house.”

Tears burned her eyes.

“And three years later, my mother died believing someone had murdered her husband and gotten away with it.”

Dominic slowly rose.

“Harper—”

“No. I need to say this.”

He stopped.

She held the photograph tightly.

“I spent eight years trying to prove he was a good man. Eight years. And all that time, the Russo family kept building bigger offices and buying more buildings.”

Dominic looked at the floor.

She laughed bitterly.

“Do you know what the worst part is?”

He shook his head.

“I started caring about you.”

The words came out before she could stop them.

Silence filled the room.

Harper's eyes widened.

She stepped backward.

“I didn't mean—”

“Harper.”

“Please don't.”

But Dominic had gone very still.

He looked at her with an expression she had never seen before.

Not anger.

Not surprise alone.

Something deeper.

Something almost painful.

“You care about me?”

She wiped at her cheeks.

“It doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“No, Dominic. It doesn't.”

She shook her head.

“Because I can't stand here and wonder if your family destroyed mine while pretending my feelings for you make everything okay.”

He swallowed.

“I'm not asking you to.”

“Then don't make this harder.”

For a long moment, he said nothing.

Finally, he stepped away from his desk.

“What do you need?”

Harper looked at him.

“I need the truth.”

“Then that's what we'll find.”

“And until then?”

He waited.

She drew a shaky breath.

“I think I need to leave this job.”

The words struck him harder than he expected.

He'd spent the entire evening worrying that another man might take Harper away from him.

Now he was watching her walk away for a reason that had nothing to do with Simon Caldwell.

And he understood that his own desires were the least important thing in the room.

“Okay,” he said quietly.

Harper blinked.

“Okay?”

“You can resign. We'll settle your final wages and any outstanding leave. Margaret can handle the transition.”

She studied his face.

“You're not angry?”

“I'm not happy.”

He gave a humorless smile.

“But I won't use your job to keep you close.”

Harper looked away before he could see how much that meant to her.

At one fifteen in the morning, Margaret Donnelly knocked on the study door.

The sixty-three-year-old housekeeper carried a tray with tea and sandwiches.

She stopped when she saw Harper's tearstained face.

“Oh, sweetheart.”

Harper tried to smile.

“I'm fine.”

Margaret looked unconvinced.

She set the tray down.

Then her eyes fell on the photograph lying beside Dominic's papers.

Her entire expression changed.

She reached for the edge of the desk.

“Where did you get that?”

Dominic looked up.

“Margaret?”

The older woman pointed at the picture.

“That's Peter Hayes.”

Harper stood so quickly her chair scraped the floor.

“You knew my father?”

Margaret turned toward her.

For a moment, her lips trembled.

“Oh, Harper.”

“You knew him?”

Margaret nodded slowly.

“He came to the old Russo house more than once. Your father was a kind man.”

Harper felt tears rushing back.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

Margaret closed her eyes.

“Because I didn't realize who you were when you first came here.”

“My last name is Hayes.”

“There are thousands of people named Hayes, sweetheart.”

“Then when did you realize?”

Margaret looked at Dominic.

“Six months ago.”

Harper stared at her.

“What?”

“I saw the photograph you keep in your wallet. You left it beside the laundry sink one afternoon. It was your father standing with you at your high school graduation.”

Harper remembered the moment.

Margaret had returned the photograph without comment.

“You knew,” Harper whispered.

Margaret began crying.

“I suspected.”

“And you said nothing.”

“I didn't know how much you knew. I was afraid bringing up the past would hurt you.”

Harper shook her head.

“You should have told me.”

“Yes,” Margaret whispered. “I should have.”

Dominic moved closer.

“Margaret, is there something else?”

The older woman looked toward the grandfather clock.

Then she sank into a chair.

“I've been carrying something for eight years.”

Neither Dominic nor Harper moved.

Margaret stared at her folded hands.

“The afternoon before the warehouse fire, Peter came to the old house. Mr. Vincent was away.”

“Why?” Dominic asked.

“He said he needed to leave something where it would be safe.”

Harper's heart began pounding.

Margaret continued.

“He looked frightened. I'd never seen him that way. His hands were shaking, and he kept asking whether Mr. Vincent was expected home.”

“What did he leave?” Dominic asked.

Margaret looked toward the clock.

“He asked me to bring him the small screwdriver from the maintenance drawer.”

Harper slowly turned.

“The clock?”

Margaret nodded.

“He opened a panel near the bottom. He was there for several minutes. Then he told me something.”

“What?” Harper whispered.

The older woman began to cry harder.

“He said, 'If I don't come back, promise me you won't let them throw that clock away.'”

The room became utterly silent.

Harper looked at the beautiful antique.

For eighteen months, she'd stood beside it.

Wound it.

Cleaned it.

Heard it ticking through lonely afternoons.

And somewhere inside might be the answer she'd spent eight years searching for.

“Why didn't you tell the police?” she asked.

Margaret wiped her cheeks.

“I tried to tell Mr. Vincent after the fire. He said Peter had become unstable, that the police were handling everything, and that I should forget what I'd seen.”

Dominic's expression darkened.

“My father told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Did he know something was hidden?”

“I don't know.”

Harper stepped toward the clock.

Her fingers trembled as she touched its carved wooden frame.

“Can we open it?”

Dominic looked at her.

“It's part of the evidence now. We should have someone document everything before touching it.”

She turned.

“Please, Dominic.”

He wanted to say yes.

Wanted to give her whatever she needed.

But Rachel Pierce's warning echoed in his mind.

If there was evidence, they had to protect it.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said. “We'll have someone independent present. We'll record the opening. Whatever we find will be documented.”

Harper's shoulders sank.

“I've already waited eight years.”

“I know.”

“No, you don't.”

He accepted the words without defending himself.

Then he said gently, “But I don't want anyone to have a reason to question what we find.”

Harper stared at him.

Finally, she nodded.

“Tomorrow.”

Harper didn't sleep much.

By four in the morning, she had returned to the small guest room she'd used occasionally when winter storms made her commute unsafe.

She sat beside the window, staring at her father's photograph.

She remembered being nineteen.

Remembered the police officer standing on their doorstep.

Remembered her mother collapsing against the kitchen counter.

Remembered the smell of burned paper when investigators returned Peter's belongings.

Most of the items had been destroyed.

His watch.

His wallet.

His identification badge.

A tiny metal key ring.

Everything smelled like smoke.

But the watch had stopped at 11:41.

For years, Harper had kept it in a small wooden box.

She had never managed to repair it.

At five thirty, her phone vibrated.

A message from an unknown number.

You should have taken the envelope and done what I asked.

Harper stared at the screen.

Another message appeared.

The clock belongs to people who are willing to kill for what's inside.

Her mouth went dry.

Then came a photograph.

Not of her father.

Of her.

Standing outside the Russo penthouse eighteen months earlier.

On the morning of her first job interview.

Harper enlarged the picture.

She was wearing a navy coat and carrying a folder containing her résumé.

Someone had photographed her before she'd even entered the building.

Then a final message appeared.

Ask Dominic why his uncle knew exactly who you were before you were hired.

At seven twenty, Gideon entered Dominic's study carrying a tablet.

His expression was unusually grim.

Dominic looked up from the paperwork scattered across his desk.

“What?”

“I reviewed the archived recruitment records.”

“And?”

“Harper applied through the normal household staffing agency. Margaret interviewed her. Everything looked routine.”

Dominic nodded.

“But?” he asked.

Gideon placed the tablet on the desk.

“Someone accessed her personnel file before she arrived for that interview.”

“Who?”

“An authorized account from Russo Infrastructure's executive office.”

Dominic frowned.

“Carlo?”

“The access logs show an account assigned to his office. We can't establish who was using it.”

“Why would infrastructure need a housekeeper's résumé?”

“That isn't the only problem.”

Gideon opened another document.

“Three weeks ago, someone from that same office requested an updated household schedule.”

Dominic's eyes narrowed.

“When Harper met Caldwell.”

“Exactly.”

Dominic looked toward the grandfather clock.

He remembered Harper explaining why she'd taken the job.

She'd believed she was the one investigating the Russo family.

But someone had been watching her from the beginning.

And that changed everything.

Because if Carlo's office had known Harper was Peter Hayes's daughter before she was hired, then her presence in the penthouse might never have been a coincidence.

Dominic rose slowly.

“Find out who authorized those requests.”

Gideon nodded.

“And Dominic?”

“What?”

“There's one more thing.”

He turned the tablet around.

A scanned email appeared on the screen.

It had been sent from an executive assistant's account eighteen months earlier.

The subject line read:

Household Candidate — Hayes, Harper.

Beneath it was a single sentence.