Chapter 2 - The Boss Who Never Raised His Voice
By morning, everyone in the estate knew something had happened.
No one knew exactly what.
That was how Vincent preferred it.
Rumors spread through silence faster than truth ever could.
Donovan disappeared.
Two security men escorted him from the mansion before dawn.
Nobody saw him leave.
Nobody asked where he went.
The official explanation was simple.
He had been suspended pending an internal investigation.
The unofficial explanation was darker.
Fay heard three different versions before breakfast.
He had stolen money.
He had betrayed Vincent.
He had attacked an employee.
He had tried to sell information.
The truth, she suspected, was all four.
Fay woke in the small staff apartment behind the east wing and sat on the edge of her bed.
Her mother had called at 6:12.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
“You sound strange.”
“I didn't sleep well.”
Her mother went quiet.
“Did something happen at work?”
Fay touched her jaw.
“No.”
She hated lying to her.
But her mother had enough fear.
Cancer had turned the older woman into a collection of appointments, medication schedules, and stubborn hope.
Fay couldn't add mafia problems to that list.
“I've transferred the money for your treatment.”
“You shouldn't be spending everything on me.”
“You're my mother.”
“I know.”
“Eat breakfast.”
“You sound like your father.”
Fay smiled despite herself.
She had not thought about her father in years.
He had vanished when she was thirteen.
No body.
No explanation.
Just a note.
Don't look for me.
Her mother never talked about him.
Fay had learned not to ask.
That evening, when she returned to work, the estate felt different.
Security had doubled.
Men in dark suits stood in hallways where she had never seen them before.
The cameras had been repositioned.
Even the staff entrance had a new electronic lock.
As Fay carried folded linens upstairs, she saw Vincent standing at the end of the corridor.
He wasn't alone.
Three men surrounded him.
His brother, Julian Cross, stood beside him.
Julian was twenty-nine, beautiful in the effortless way dangerous men often were, with blond hair and a grin that had never matched his eyes.
He looked at Fay.
Then at the bruise.
Then back at Vincent.
“You didn't tell me she was involved.”
Fay stopped.
Vincent looked at him.
“She isn't involved.”
Julian smiled.
“That's what they all say.”
Vincent's gaze sharpened.
“You're done.”
Julian's smile vanished.
Fay lowered her eyes and continued walking.
She barely reached the servants' staircase before Vincent's voice followed her.
“Fay.”
She turned.
“Sir?”
“Come to my office after your shift.”
Her heart sank.
“Yes, sir.”
All day she wondered why.
At ten that evening, she knocked.
“Come in.”
Vincent stood by the window.
He did not sit behind his desk.
On the desk lay a folder.
Fay approached carefully.
“What is it?”
“Your employment file.”
Her stomach tightened.
“Am I fired?”
“No.”
He opened it.
“You've worked here three years.”
“Yes.”
“No disciplinary reports.”
“No.”
“You've never missed a shift without notice.”
“No.”
“You've requested only two salary advances.”
Fay looked confused.
“One for your mother's treatment.”
“Yes.”
“The second?”
She hesitated.
“For rent.”
Vincent nodded.
“You've never stolen anything.”
“No.”
“You've never spoken to the press.”
“No.”
“You've never shared household information.”
“No.”
He closed the file.
“That's why I trust you.”
She blinked.
“Sir?”
“I trust very few people.”
The words sounded almost like a warning.
He moved closer.
“After Donovan was removed, I reviewed his phone.”
Fay swallowed.
“What did you find?”
“Messages.”
“To whom?”
“An outside number.”
“What about?”
“You.”
She froze.
“Me?”
“Yes.”
Her mind raced.
“What did they say?”
“Your name appeared several times.”
Fay's face went pale.
“Why?”
“I don't know yet.”
He handed her a photograph.
It showed Fay leaving the hospital.
She recognized the building.
It was where her mother received treatment.
The photograph had been taken from across the street.
“When was this?” she whispered.
“Four months ago.”
Fay's fingers shook.
“Who took it?”
“We're trying to determine that.”
She looked at Vincent.
“Why would anyone watch me?”
“That is what I need to know.”
She sat down.
“This has something to do with my mother.”
Vincent's eyes narrowed.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because nobody else cares where I go.”
“You're wrong.”
He pointed toward another photograph.
It showed her mother.
Fay nearly stopped breathing.
“Where did you get this?”
“Same source.”
Her hand covered her mouth.
Vincent watched her.
“Does your mother know anyone in my organization?”
“No.”
“Did your father ever work for us?”
The question struck her like a physical blow.
She looked up.
“How do you know about my father?”
Vincent didn't answer immediately.
“I found an old employee list.”
“My father was not your employee.”
“His name was on a shipping manifest.”
Fay stared at him.
“My father's name was Michael Miller.”
Vincent opened another folder.
There it was.
Michael Miller.
Logistics coordinator.
Cross Shipping Division.
Employment ended seventeen years ago.
Status: Missing.
Fay whispered:
“You knew him.”
“I knew of him.”
“My mother told me he left.”
“That may not be true.”
Fay stood.
“Then where is he?”
Vincent's expression hardened.
“I don't know.”
She stared at him.
“Then find out.”
It was the first time she had ever raised her voice in his presence.
Silence followed.
Then, unexpectedly, Vincent nodded.
“I intend to.”
The next morning he assigned his private investigator, Marcus Hale, to Fay's family records.
Marcus spent two days digging.
On the third, he returned with a report.
Michael Miller had worked with Vincent's father.
He had discovered something in the shipping network.
A series of missing containers.
False manifests.
Money laundering.
And human trafficking.
Michael had threatened to expose the operation.
Then he disappeared.
Fay sat in the investigator's office reading the report with trembling hands.
“My father wasn't a criminal.”
Marcus looked at her.
“No.”
“He was trying to stop them.”
“Yes.”
“What happened to him?”
“We don't know.”
“Did Vincent know?”
Marcus hesitated.
“That depends on what you mean.”
Fay frowned.
“Was Vincent's father responsible?”
“Potentially.”
“Was Vincent?”
“No.”
“You sound certain.”
Marcus looked at her.
“Vincent wasn't old enough to control the syndicate when your father vanished.”
“How old was he?”
“Fifteen.”
Fay felt something inside her soften.
The boy who watched his father run an empire.
The boy who inherited it.
The man who now wanted to know who had destroyed her family.
Later that night, Vincent found Fay alone in the kitchen.
She was washing dishes.
“You shouldn't be working.”
“I have a shift.”
“You could take time off.”
“I can't afford to.”
He looked at her.
“I'll pay you.”
She shook her head.
“I don't want charity.”
“It's not charity.”
“What is it?”
“Compensation.”
“For what?”
“For the trouble my organization caused your family.”
She stopped washing.
“My father wasn't your fault.”
“Not directly.”
Fay looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
Vincent was silent.
Then he said:
“My father was a monster.”
The admission surprised her.
“I thought you respected him.”
“I respected his power.”
“That isn't the same thing.”
“No.”
He leaned against the counter.
“My father taught me something.”
“What?”
“People don't betray you because they hate you.”
“What do they betray you for?”
“Because they want something you have.”
Fay thought about it.
“What does everyone want from you?”
Vincent's gaze settled on her.
“Control.”
The word hung between them.
Then he added:
“And apparently, someone believes they can get it by using you.”
Fay looked away.
“I don't understand.”
“You will.”
He left.
She watched him go.
And for the first time, she realized something dangerous.
Vincent Cross was not protecting her because he felt sorry for her.
May you like
He was protecting her because she was connected to a secret that had survived seventeen years.
And someone was willing to kill to keep that secret buried.
