Chapter 2 - The Bleeding Hands and the Bold Bargain
It was an obvious, transparent lie. Half the ballroom had watched Camila stumble into Beatrice all on her own. But the young maid was deliberately offering herself as a substitute target, a human shield to save the Russo matriarch from further humiliation. Beatrice stared down at her, momentarily derailed by such staggering audacity. "You clumsy idiot!" Beatrice hissed, her face contorted with rage. "Do you have any idea what this designer dress costs? It’s worth more than your miserable life!" The maid kept her head bowed, murmuring apologies while gathering the last large pieces of crystal. Bright red blood began to seep from her palms, dripping down to hit the white marble floor, leaving tiny crimson dots and dark stains across the knees of her gray uniform skirt.
Vincent finally reached them, the air around him dropping several degrees. He completely ignored Beatrice, as well as Carmine Gallow who was stepping forward with a predatory smirk. Vincent had eyes only for his mother. He wrapped a strong, protective arm around Camila’s frail shoulders, shielding her completely from the glaring lights and ugly stares. "It’s all right, Ma," Vincent murmured, his voice dropping to a low, soothing register meant only for her ears. "Thomas is waiting upstairs. Let’s go see him." Camila blinked, and for a brief second, clarity returned to her cloudy eyes. "Vincent... it’s loud down here," she whispered. "I know," he held her tighter. "We’re leaving." Vincent turned his head, casting one final look at Beatrice Gallow. There was no rage in his dark eyes—only a cold, terrifying promise of retribution. Beatrice swallowed hard and involuntarily took a step backward. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, Beatrice," Vincent said smoothly. "The wine is on the house."
Guiding Camila toward the grand staircase, Vincent passed his underboss, Paulie, giving him a single, subtle nod. Paulie understood the silent command instantly, stepping smoothly into the vacuum to intercept Carmine, manage the crowd, and preserve the fragile treaty for another night. At the base of the stairs, Vincent looked back over his shoulder. The maid was gone, leaving behind only faint streaks of her blood on the polished marble. Upstairs, after settling Camila into bed as she babbled happily about the past, Vincent fired the negligent nurse with a single, chilling sentence. The woman packed her bags and fled the estate in under two minutes. Then, Vincent descended into the vast, industrial kitchens in search of the maid.
The basement kitchen smelled of harsh bleach, roasted garlic, and old grease. Vincent found her sitting on an overturned milk crate near the deep stainless steel sinks. A basic first-aid kit rested on her lap, and her skirt was pulled up above her knees, revealing ugly abrasions embedded with tiny sparkling fragments of glass. She held a pair of cheap plastic tweezers, gritting her teeth as she tried to pluck a stubborn shard from her left knee. She didn’t cry, though her jaw was locked in fierce frustration. Vincent lingered near the doorway, a place where his mere presence usually caused men to freeze in absolute terror. The maid didn't even notice him until he spoke. "You bled on my floor," Vincent said evenly. "Now you’re bleeding on my crates."
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The maid jumped violently, dropping the tweezers to the tile floor with a clatter. Her dark eyes widened for a fraction of a second before narrowing with defensive fire. She retrieved the tweezers, wiped them on a paper towel, and looked right at him. "I’ll mop it up before my shift ends," she snapped, her voice rough with exhaustion. Up close, Vincent saw she was barely twenty-two, weighed down by heavy dark circles and the deep fatigue of someone working herself to the bone. "What’s your name?" he asked. "Nora," she replied, pressing antiseptic gauze against her knee. "Nora Hayes." No sir, no Mr. Russo. "Do you know who I am, Nora Hayes?" Vincent challenged. Nora looked him over—the custom suit, the expensive watch, the lethal aura. "You’re the guy who signs my checks," she retorted flatly. "Or your accountant does. If you’re here to fire me for making a scene upstairs, spit it out. I have another shift at a diner at 4:00 a.m., and I’d like to bandage these up before I stand for eight hours."
A foreign sensation bloomed in Vincent’s chest—respect. "You don’t know who that woman was," Vincent said. "The woman with the wine? I was just buffing the mirror," Nora shrugged. "Beatrice Gallow could blacklisted you from every agency in the city. She could have you beaten." Nora let out a dry, humorless laugh. "Let her try. I live in Queens. My landlord is a terrifying threat than some rich woman crying over silk." She stood up, wincing from the pain. "Are you firing me or not?" Vincent looked at her crudely taped hands. She had knelt on broken glass for a stranger while his own armed guards stood paralyzed. "The nurse watching my mother is gone," Vincent stated. "I need someone with her. Twenty-four-hour coverage, alternating shifts, mostly daylight. Keep her calm. Keep her in the east wing." Nora crossed her arms. "I work three jobs, Mr. Russo. I’m a cleaner, not a nurse." "I’ll pay five times what the agency paid you tonight. Cash. Weekly." Nora paused, her eyes calculating the offer. It wasn’t luxury; it was survival. Rent, food, freedom from drowning. "And health insurance," she demanded firmly. "If she bites me, or if I fall on more glass, I’m not paying medical bills." Vincent stared in disbelief. People begged him for favors; this injured girl was negotiating benefits while bleeding. "Done. Tomorrow, 8:00 a.m.," Vincent said, turning away. "Don’t be late."
