Chapter 1 - THE REFLECTION IN THE GLASS|
Glass cleaner burned the inside of my nose as I polished the heavy mirrors outside the Venetian Grande’s nineteenth-floor suite. Afternoon light caught each spray in a brief, shimmering rainbow. By the time I reached the next glass panel, the colors were gone and my reflection looked like every other maid in the hotel: gray uniform, hair pulled tight, eyes lowered.
I had worked there three weeks. My regular assignment was floors twelve through fifteen, but another housekeeper had called in sick. Mrs. Kowalski sent me upstairs with strict instructions: clean the hall, speak to no one, and finish before Enzo Marciano left his suit.
Two of his bodyguards stood near the service elevator. The one with a thick scar cutting through his left eyebrow kept glancing down at his phone while his partner watched the hallway.
I knew that scar. Eight years earlier, that same man had sat at my father’s kitchen table in Newark, eating my mother’s homemade biscotti and assuring her my father was safe.
My father was executed by sunrise.
I kept wiping the mirror, forcing my hands not to shake. The scarred man angled his phone toward his partner, and the glowing screen appeared directly behind them in the reflection of the polished glass. My grandmother had forced me to read and speak Italian every Sunday as a child. I understood the message before he turned the screen away.
Undici minuti. Ingresso seminterrato.
Eleven minutes. Basement entrance.
The heavy mahogany suite door opened. Four more bodyguards stepped out, followed by Enzo Marciano himself, looking formidable in a tailored dark charcoal suit. He spoke quietly into his phone as he walked toward the private elevator. The two men at the service end remained where they were, leaving a clear stretch of hallway behind him.
I could have reported what I saw after he left. I pictured Mrs. Kowalski listening to a maid accuse a powerful guest’s security team, then pictured the scarred man returning to my apartment with that familiar, deadly smile.
My hand tightened around the plastic bottle until it slipped. It struck the marble floor with a loud crack, and blue liquid spread around my black shoes.
Marciano glanced back. One of his guards began walking toward me, his hand reaching under his jacket.
I stepped over the spill and went straight to meet Marciano.
"Mr. Marciano," I said, my voice low and urgent. "The two men by the service elevator are setting you up. One sent a message about the basement entrance."
The lead guard stepped between us, but Marciano stopped him with a slight lift of his gloved hand.
May you like
"What message?" Marciano asked, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
"Eleven minutes. Basement entrance," I whispered, holding up my wrist. "Less than that now."
