Chapter 2 - The Ghost of Clara
I carried Emma down the winding back stairs into the cavernous basement kitchen, my heart pounding so furiously against my ribs that my knees felt made of jelly. When the swinging door shut behind us, Maria, the head cook who had run the Caruso kitchen for thirty years, dropped her wooden ladle into the marinara sauce with a wet splash.
"Santa Maria," Maria whispered, crossing herself three times as she hurried over to wrap both of us in her flour-dusted apron. "We heard the shouting through the dumbwaiter! Sarah, you are blessed by angels! I was certain Dominic would have you thrown out onto the street before midnight!"
"Emma talked back to Mr. Caruso," I breathed, sinking onto a wooden stool, pulling my daughter into a crushing hug. "She yelled at him, Maria. She told him he wasn't doing his job."
Maria’s dark eyes widened, and she looked down at Emma with a strange, reverent expression. She crouched down, wiping a smudge of flour from my daughter’s cheek. "She said he wasn't doing his job? To Vincent?"
"Yes," I nodded, my hands still shaking as I smoothed Emma's brown braids. "And then... he looked at her face, and his hand started shaking. He said she reminded him of someone. Maria, who did she look like? Why did he drop to his knees?"
Maria glanced nervously toward the metal service door, ensuring none of the hallway guards were lingering nearby, before pulling another stool closer. Her wrinkled face softened with twenty years of buried sorrow.
"Clara," Maria whispered. "His daughter. Vincent’s only child."
My breath caught in my throat. In the three weeks I had worked in the mansion, I had seen no photographs on the marble mantels, no family portraits, only dark oil paintings of Italian landscapes and stern ancestors.
"What happened to her?" I asked quietly.
"Twenty-four years ago, Clara was just seven years old," Maria murmured, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "She had brown hair just like your Emma. The same big, stubborn eyes. She loved to run around this very kitchen wearing an apron, baking tiny biscuits with her mother. Clara was the only person in the world who wasn't terrified of Vincent. When he was angry with his captains, Clara would march into his study, climb onto his desk, and tell him to stop scowling because it gave him wrinkles."
Emma perked up, her curiosity winning out over exhaustion. "Did she like pink socks too?"
Maria gave a tearful, affectionate chuckle. "She loved pink everything, little one. But back then, Vincent was at war with the Moretti syndicate from Brooklyn. He thought his fortress was impenetrable. He thought his guards were loyal." Maria swallowed hard, her voice dropping into a painful whisper. "One afternoon, Clara’s mother took her to Central Park for ice cream. A car pulled up. Vincent arrived ten minutes too late. His wife died in the hospital, but Clara... Clara was taken. They searched every warehouse, every ditch, every basement in three states. Vincent turned New York upside down, but they never found her. He never buried his daughter."
A chilling weight settled over the kitchen.
"From that day on," Maria continued, "Vincent stopped smiling. He eliminated every man who had a hand in that war, but the house turned into a tomb. He surrounds himself with yes-men like Dominic because he hates this life, but he doesn't know how to leave it. And tonight... tonight your little girl walked into that room with Clara’s spirit in her eyes."
May you like
Before I could answer, the kitchen intercom buzzed with a sharp, electronic hiss.
Frank, Vincent’s chief of personal security, spoke through the speaker: "Sarah Dawson. Mr. Caruso wants to see you in his private library immediately. Bring the child."
