Chapter 2
Moving with seamless, quiet grace through the bright, airy room was Daphne Ellis. At twenty-eight, the housemaid was exceptionally beautiful, resembling a movie star herself with her softly tapered face, delicate cheekbones, and expressive brows. Her fair, rosy skin was pale tonight, reflecting a deep, internalized dread. Her thick hair was pinned meticulously into a loose, elegant chignon. She wore a sophisticated black maid dress featuring a cinched waist, a slim fitted silhouette, and a short A-line skirt. A neatly tied white apron, paired with a crisp white collar and cuffs, completed her polished appearance.
However, Daphne was not carrying a silver tray or refilling crystal stemware. Walking slowly and unsteadily beside her was an elderly man entirely out of place in the grand, opulent setting.
Walter Bennett, the seventy-four-year-old cemetery caretaker, looked incredibly fragile. He wore a worn formal jacket that had seen better decades, a carefully pressed shirt, and polished but scuffed old shoes. His fair skin was deeply lined, his posture stooped under the invisible, crushing weight of profound guilt. Walter had been the man tasked with preparing the grave for Holden’s supposedly deceased wife a year prior. He knew a dark, terrifying secret about that closed-coffin funeral—a secret that Lenora Vance had violently threatened him into keeping.
Frightened for his life but unable to bear the guilt any longer, Walter had sought out the beautiful housemaid, begging Daphne for help approaching the terrifying Mafia boss.
Daphne guided Walter toward the space directly to the right of Holden’s position at the head table. She struggled violently to contain her distress, forcing her breathing to remain even so as not to draw more attention than necessary.
With meticulous care, Daphne reached out and drew out an empty velvet dining chair for the elderly caretaker.
Before Walter could even begin to lower himself into the seat, a shadow fell across the pristine white damask tablecloth.
Lenora moved with striking, aggressive speed for a woman in a sculpted satin gown. She leaned sharply across the low arrangements of white roses, her diamond earrings flashing violently in the light of the crystal chandeliers. Her manicured hand shot out, and her long fingers clamped down hard, closing viciously around Walter’s upper arm.
Walter stopped immediately. His thin shoulders tightened defensively beneath the worn fabric of his jacket. He let out a small, involuntary gasp of pain as her nails dug into his skin.
Lenora did not look at the elderly man. Instead, she lifted her chin and looked directly across the table at Holden.
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“He’s confused. Send him away.”
Lenora’s voice was smooth, melodic, and entirely dismissive. She offered a small, indulgent smile, leaning slightly forward to command the intimacy of the moment. She delivered the words as if dismissing a trivial nuisance, a wandering vagrant who had stumbled into the wrong party. Her eyes carefully and frantically searched Holden's angular face for any sign of acceptance, any indication that he had bought her casual dismissal.
