Chapter 2 - The Mafia Boss Took the Maid to a Forgotten Chapel—But the Woman Waiting Inside Knew Who Really Murdered His MotherThe first thing Emma noticed after the explosion was that Victor Blackwood's hands were shaking.
Not badly.
Not enough for anyone else to notice.
But Emma noticed everything.
His left hand rested against the kitchen counter, fingers spread across the cracked laminate. His right held a phone displaying the message threatening her life.
The man who controlled half of Chicago's criminal underworld was afraid.
Not for himself.
For her.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Emma shook her head.
“Are you?”
“No.”
“Your arm.”
Victor looked down.
A thin line of blood ran from his wrist to his elbow.
A piece of shattered glass had sliced through his sleeve.
“It's nothing.”
Emma stared at him.
“You're bleeding.”
“I've had worse.”
“That doesn't mean you should ignore it.”
For a moment, Victor seemed genuinely surprised.
Then something almost like a smile touched his mouth.
“You're giving me medical advice?”
“My mother was a nurse. I learned a few things.”
Outside, sirens approached.
Marco entered through the damaged front door with two armed guards.
“Boss. We need to move.”
Victor stood.
“What happened?”
“Explosive device under the lead security vehicle. Remote detonation. No fatalities. Daniel took shrapnel to the shoulder.”
Emma pressed a hand over her mouth.
“Is he going to be okay?”
Marco glanced at her.
“He'll live.”
Victor looked toward the window.
“Whoever did this knew our position.”
“Someone followed us,” Marco said.
“Or someone told them where we were going.”
The implication hung in the air.
Another betrayal.
Another person inside the Blackwood organization feeding information to an enemy.
Victor looked at Emma.
“Pack a bag.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Clothes. Medication. Anything you need for a few days.”
“I'm not leaving my apartment.”
“Emma.”
“No.”
Her voice came out sharper than she intended.
Victor went still.
Emma stood.
“I understand that someone is threatening me. I understand that something terrible happened to your mother. But you don't get to walk into my life and start making decisions for me because you have money and security guards.”
Marco looked away.
Victor studied her.
For several seconds, he said nothing.
Then he nodded.
“You're right.”
Emma blinked.
“What?”
“I said you're right.”
He put his phone away.
“I'm asking you to come somewhere secure until we understand who is targeting you.”
Emma folded her arms.
“And if I say no?”
Victor's jaw tightened.
“Then I'll leave two guards outside your building, give you their numbers, and explain every reason I think that's a terrible idea.”
Emma considered him.
It wasn't exactly freedom.
But it was more choice than she had expected.
“Where would we go?”
“Blackwood Manor.”
She looked toward the shattered window.
“The place where someone planted a listening device?”
Victor grimaced.
“Fair point.”
Marco cleared his throat.
“The lake house, boss.”
Victor looked at him.
Marco continued.
“Independent security system. Separate staff. Only four people know the access codes.”
Victor nodded.
“The lake house.”
Emma looked between them.
“Do I get my own room?”
Marco coughed.
Victor shot him a murderous look.
“Of course.”
“And nobody touches my things?”
“Agreed.”
“And if I decide to leave?”
Victor hesitated.
Then answered.
“I won't stop you.”
Emma studied his face.
Finally, she nodded.
“Give me ten minutes.”
The lake house wasn't a house.
It was a mansion disguised as a house.
Located beyond a private stretch of shoreline north of Chicago, the property had floor-to-ceiling windows, limestone walls, and a driveway long enough to make Emma wonder whether the Blackwoods had ever heard of walking.
She stepped out of the SUV and stared.
“This is ridiculous.”
Victor glanced at her.
“What?”
“The size of this place.”
“It's smaller than the manor.”
“That isn't helping.”
Marco hid a smile.
Victor led her inside.
Warm lights illuminated a wide entrance hall.
There were no chandeliers.
No portraits of intimidating ancestors.
No servants rushing to lower their eyes.
Instead, the house smelled faintly of cedar and coffee.
Emma immediately liked it better.
A middle-aged woman emerged from the kitchen.
She had silver-streaked hair and wore a dark blue cardigan.
“Victor.”
Her voice carried the familiarity of someone who had known him before he became frightening.
“Mrs. Bell.”
The woman hugged him.
Emma stared.
Victor Blackwood allowed someone to hug him.
Apparently the world contained more surprises than she had imagined.
Mrs. Bell stepped back and looked at Emma.
“And this must be our guest.”
Victor nodded.
“Emma Lawson.”
The woman's expression softened.
“I'm Ruth Bell. I manage the property. You must be exhausted, sweetheart.”
Emma nearly cried at the simple kindness.
“It's been a strange day.”
Ruth looked at the bruise on her cheek.
Her smile vanished.
“Who did that?”
Emma hesitated.
Victor answered.
“A man who no longer works for me.”
Ruth looked satisfied.
“Good.”
Then she turned toward Emma.
“Come on. I'll show you your room. After that, I'll make you something warm.”
Emma followed her upstairs.
The bedroom overlooked the lake.
A large bed stood against one wall.
Fresh flowers rested on a dresser.
The bathroom was bigger than Emma's entire kitchen.
She set her bag down.
Ruth watched her carefully.
“Victor doesn't bring people here.”
Emma turned.
“Ever?”
“Not often.”
“Why?”
Ruth smiled sadly.
“Because this is where he comes when he wants to remember who he was before the world taught him to be someone else.”
Emma looked toward the water.
“Was he different?”
Ruth considered the question.
“He was kind.”
Emma looked surprised.
Ruth continued.
“He still is, in places. He just hides those places very carefully.”
At midnight, Emma found Victor sitting alone in the kitchen.
He had removed his suit jacket.
His sleeves were rolled up.
A bandage covered his injured arm.
Before him sat Eleanor's letter, the old photograph, and Emma's silver pendant.
He looked exhausted.
Emma paused in the doorway.
“You should sleep.”
Victor looked up.
“So should you.”
“I couldn't.”
“Neither could I.”
She walked toward the counter.
“Coffee?”
“It's midnight.”
“Exactly.”
Victor almost smiled.
Emma made two cups.
She knew he took his black because she had spent three weeks serving him breakfast.
She placed one before him.
He looked at it.
“You remember.”
“Two sugars on Sundays,” she said.
Victor blinked.
“What?”
“You take it black during the week. On Sundays, you add two sugars.”
He stared at her.
“How do you know that?”
Emma shrugged.
“People have patterns.”
Victor looked down at his coffee.
“My mother used to put sugar in my coffee on Sundays.”
Emma sat opposite him.
“Maybe you kept the habit.”
For a long moment, neither spoke.
Then Victor pushed the photograph toward her.
“Tell me about your mother.”
Emma looked at Margaret's smiling face.
“She was stubborn.”
Victor listened.
“She worked two jobs most of my childhood. Hospital shifts during the day, private nursing jobs when she could get them. She loved old movies and terrible romance novels.”
Emma smiled faintly.
“She could make a birthday cake out of almost nothing. One year we didn't have enough money for frosting, so she covered it with powdered sugar and told me it was snow.”
Victor's expression softened.
“She sounds remarkable.”
“She was.”
Emma swallowed.
“She was also afraid of something.”
Victor leaned forward.
“What do you mean?”
“When I was little, she never let me answer the door unless I knew who was outside. We moved apartments four times before I turned ten. She changed our phone number constantly.”
“Did she explain why?”
“She said some people didn't like being reminded of their mistakes.”
Victor's gaze sharpened.
Emma continued.
“I thought she meant an old boyfriend. Or maybe someone from the hospital.”
“Did she ever mention my family?”
“Not directly.”
She hesitated.
“But there was a name.”
Victor waited.
“Arthur.”
His face changed.
Emma noticed immediately.
“Who is Arthur?”
Victor looked toward the dark windows.
“My father.”
Emma felt a chill.
“Arthur Blackwood?”
Victor nodded.
“He died six years ago.”
“What happened?”
“Heart attack.”
Emma studied him.
“You don't believe that.”
Victor gave a humorless laugh.
“I believe my family has a talent for convenient medical explanations.”
He opened Eleanor's letter again.
“Mother wrote, ‘Do not trust the man who tells you he loved me most.’”
Emma looked at him.
“Your father?”
Victor's jaw tightened.
“He spent twelve years telling me nobody loved her more than he did.”
The next morning, Victor summoned his family's longtime attorney.
His name was Charles Voss.
He arrived at the lake house shortly after nine, wearing an expensive gray suit and the expression of a man who disliked surprises.
Victor met him in the study.
Emma was there because Victor had asked her to attend.
Charles noticed her immediately.
“Victor, I wasn't aware this was a staff meeting.”
“It isn't.”
Charles glanced at Emma.
“Then perhaps the housekeeper could excuse herself.”
Victor's voice turned cold.
“Miss Lawson stays.”
Charles smiled tightly.
“Of course.”
Victor placed Eleanor's letter on the desk.
Charles read it.
His expression barely changed.
But Emma saw his right thumb press against his wedding ring.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
A nervous habit.
Victor watched him.
“Recognize the handwriting?”
“Yes.”
“Recognize the photograph?”
Charles looked at it.
“Eleanor with a nurse, apparently.”
“Margaret Lawson.”
The attorney's eyes flickered.
Emma noticed.
Victor noticed too.
“You knew her.”
Charles folded his hands.
“I may have encountered her during Eleanor's illness.”
“May have?”
“It was twelve years ago.”
“Then perhaps this will refresh your memory.”
Victor placed the pendant on the desk.
Charles went completely still.
Emma watched his face.
The color had disappeared from his cheeks.
Victor leaned forward.
“What is it?”
Charles swallowed.
“Where did you find that?”
“It belonged to Margaret Lawson.”
Charles looked at Emma.
For the first time, he seemed truly frightened.
“You're Margaret's daughter?”
Emma nodded.
Charles whispered, “Dear God.”
Victor stood.
“Talk.”
Charles looked toward the door.
“I need to speak with you privately.”
“No.”
“Victor, this concerns your mother.”
“And Emma's.”
Charles hesitated.
Then slowly sat down.
“Eleanor was preparing to leave Arthur.”
Victor's expression hardened.
“What?”
“Your parents' marriage was collapsing. She had discovered certain financial arrangements involving Blackwood Holdings.”
“What arrangements?”
Charles looked miserable.
“Money laundering. Illegal property transfers. Payments to public officials.”
Victor's eyes narrowed.
“My father was involved in those things for decades.”
“Yes. But Eleanor discovered something worse.”
Emma leaned forward.
“What?”
Charles looked at her.
“She discovered that Arthur had been using a medical charity to move money through children's treatment accounts.”
Emma felt sick.
Victor's voice dropped.
“What charity?”
“The Eleanor Blackwood Children's Foundation.”
Silence.
Victor stared.
His mother had established that foundation to pay for medical care for children whose families couldn't afford it.
It had been one of the few parts of the Blackwood empire he believed remained untouched by criminal money.
Charles continued.
“Eleanor intended to expose him. She had collected records. Financial statements. Names.”
“What happened to those records?”
“She gave them to Margaret Lawson.”
Emma's breath caught.
“My mother?”
Charles nodded.
“Margaret was Eleanor's private nurse. She was also the only person Eleanor trusted.”
Victor stepped closer.
“Then why didn't Margaret come forward?”
Charles looked at him.
“Because Arthur threatened her daughter.”
Emma felt the words strike like a physical blow.
Victor turned toward her.
Charles continued.
“Margaret had a little girl. Eleanor knew Arthur would use the child to force Margaret's silence.”
Emma stared at the photograph.
The baby in the yellow blanket.
Her.
Victor's expression became terrifyingly calm.
“What did my father do to my mother?”
Charles closed his eyes.
“I don't know.”
Victor slammed one hand against the desk.
“Don't lie to me.”
Charles flinched.
“I know Eleanor died the night before she intended to deliver the evidence to federal investigators.”
“And you never questioned that?”
“I questioned everything.”
“Then why did you stay silent?”
Charles looked toward Emma.
“Because three days after Eleanor's funeral, Margaret Lawson disappeared with her daughter.”
Emma's voice trembled.
“She didn't disappear. She moved to Milwaukee.”
Charles nodded sadly.
“Because someone warned her.”
“Who?”
Charles hesitated.
Then whispered a name.
“Harold Whitmore.”
By noon, Marco had located Harold.
Not alive.
Not dead.
But missing from a hospital where he had apparently been admitted under a false name the previous night.
A nurse reported that two men in dark suits had arrived shortly before dawn.
They claimed to be family.
They signed the discharge papers.
Then they took him away.
The signature belonged to Adrian Blackwood.
Victor stared at the report.
His half brother.
The same man who had spent years complaining that Victor controlled too much of the family business.
The same man who had recently demanded access to the children's foundation accounts.
Emma watched Victor pace the study.
“Do you think Adrian knows?”
Victor stopped.
“I think Adrian knows more than he's told me.”
“Then why not ask him?”
Victor looked at her.
“Because if he is involved, asking him gives him time to destroy evidence.”
Emma considered that.
Then looked at the old photograph.
“Maybe we don't need to ask him.”
Victor frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“The chapel.”
Marco looked up.
Emma continued.
“The message said to bring me to the old chapel. Whoever sent it believes something is waiting there.”
Victor shook his head.
“It's a trap.”
“Probably.”
“Then we're not going.”
Emma folded her arms.
“Your mother left a message. My mother kept a pendant for twenty-eight years. Harold disappeared. Someone tried to kill us.”
She met his eyes.
“I'm tired of being the person everyone protects by keeping her ignorant.”
Victor stared at her.
Emma continued.
“I don't want to die. I don't want you to die. But I need to know why my mother spent her entire life afraid.”
Victor looked at Marco.
Marco sighed.
“I can secure the perimeter.”
Victor turned back to Emma.
“If we go, you follow every instruction I give.”
Emma raised an eyebrow.
“Every instruction?”
“Regarding your safety.”
“Then say that.”
Victor's mouth twitched.
“Regarding your safety.”
“Fine.”
The old chapel stood beyond an abandoned cemetery outside the city.
Its stone walls were covered in ivy.
Broken stained-glass windows stared down at the cracked pathway.
Victor's convoy stopped half a mile away.
Marco sent security teams through the surrounding woods.
Emma wore a dark coat and comfortable shoes.
Victor walked beside her.
“You can still turn back,” he said.
“So can you.”
He glanced at her.
“You're impossible.”
“I've been told.”
Inside, the chapel smelled of dust and rain.
Sunlight filtered through broken glass.
A wooden cross hung crooked above the altar.
Emma immediately noticed it.
“Another crooked thing,” she murmured.
Victor looked at her.
“Don't touch it.”
She almost smiled.
Then a woman's voice came from the shadows.
“She has her mother's eyes.”
Victor turned sharply.
An elderly woman stepped from behind a row of pews.
She wore a dark coat and held a small leather handbag.
Her silver hair was pinned neatly behind her head.
Victor froze.
“Mrs. Moreau?”
The woman smiled sadly.
“Hello, Victor.”
Emma looked between them.
“Who is she?”
Victor's voice was barely audible.
“Dr. Isabelle Moreau.”
He swallowed.
“She signed my mother's death certificate.”
The woman nodded.
“And I have spent twelve years regretting it.”
Victor stepped forward.
“Tell me what happened.”
Isabelle's eyes filled with tears.
“Your mother wasn't dying, Victor.”
The words seemed to stop time.
Victor stared.
“What?”
“She was being poisoned.”
Emma felt her stomach drop.
Isabelle continued.
“Slowly. Carefully. The symptoms resembled cardiac illness. I was told to accept the laboratory reports.”
“Who told you?”
“Arthur.”
Victor's face became stone.
“My father.”
Isabelle nodded.
“But Arthur wasn't working alone.”
A floorboard creaked behind the altar.
Marco's voice sounded through Victor's earpiece.
“Boss. Movement on the north side.”
Victor reached for Emma's arm.
Isabelle looked frightened.
“We don't have much time.”
“Then tell me who helped him.”
Isabelle opened her handbag.
Inside was a sealed medical file.
She held it toward Victor.
“Your mother discovered that the foundation was being used to traffic money. She intended to expose the people responsible.”
Victor took the file.
“Names.”
Isabelle shook her head.
“Read the final page.”
Victor opened it.
Emma leaned closer.
The last page contained a handwritten statement.
Signed by Eleanor Blackwood.
Beneath it was a list of names.
Arthur Blackwood.
Charles Voss.
And a third name.
Victor stopped breathing.
Emma looked up.
“Who is it?”
Victor didn't answer.
His face had gone completely white.
Then a voice sounded from the chapel entrance.
“You always were too curious, Victor.”
Emma turned.
A woman stood in the doorway.
Elegant.
Tall.
Dressed in a cream-colored coat.
Celeste Blackwood.
Victor's aunt.
She smiled.
Behind her stood four armed men.
And beside them—
Harold Whitmore.
His hands were bound.
His face was bruised.
Celeste looked toward Emma.
“So this is Margaret's little girl.”
Her smile widened.
“I wondered when you'd finally come looking for your mother's secrets.”
Victor stepped in front of Emma.
“Let them go, Celeste.”
Celeste laughed.
“Oh, Victor.”
She looked toward the medical file in his hand.
“You've spent twelve years blaming your father for everything.”
Her expression turned cruel.
“But Arthur was never clever enough to kill Eleanor without help.”
Victor's voice was deadly.
“Whose help?”
Celeste tilted her head.
“Mine.”
Emma heard Isabelle gasp.
Victor didn't move.
Celeste continued.
“And now, my dear nephew, you are going to give me that file.”
She raised one hand.
Her guards lifted their weapons.
Emma stood behind Victor, her heart pounding.
But something was wrong.
Celeste looked confident.
Too confident.
And Harold—
Harold wasn't looking at Victor.
He was staring at Emma.
Trying to tell her something.
His lips moved silently.
Three words.
Emma read them.
LOOK BEHIND YOU.
She turned.
The crooked wooden cross above the altar began to move.
And from the darkness behind it, someone whispered her name.
“Emma.”
She knew that voice.
She had heard it every night of her childhood.
Singing lullabies.
Reading stories.
Telling her not to be afraid.
A voice that belonged to a woman buried three years ago.
“Emma, sweetheart.”
May you like
Her blood turned cold.
“Mom?”
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