Chapter 7 - THE HOUSE WITHOUT A BOSS
Three weeks after Adrian Rossi’s arrest, the Rossi mansion became unbearably quiet.
No armed men in the kitchen.
No midnight meetings in the library.
No black sedans arriving through the service drive.
Federal agents had taken boxes of records.
City investigators had taken servers.
Leo’s attorneys had taken over the dining room.
Beatrice had taken over Lily’s homework.
It was the only system in the house still functioning.
“No,” Lily said.
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Eight plus seven does not become twelve because you are emotionally committed to twelve.”
Lily frowned at the worksheet.
“It could.”
“It cannot.”
Leo entered carrying two cups of coffee.
“Maybe she has a visionary approach to mathematics.”
Beatrice looked at him.
“Do not encourage crime.”
He handed her a cup.
“That sentence means something different in this family.”
She stared at him.
He sighed.
“I walked into that.”
Lily giggled.
The sound still felt miraculous.
Leo sat across from them.
He no longer wore suits every day.
Today he wore a gray sweater and looked less like a newspaper headline.
More dangerous, somehow.
Because ordinary suited him.
Beatrice hated noticing.
She had not returned to work as a maid.
Leo had offered to pay her while she recovered.
She refused.
Then Lily refused to let her leave.
They negotiated.
Beatrice became Lily’s temporary caregiver under a formal contract with absurd benefits and a salary that made her accuse Leo of trying to buy her.
He replied that he was trying to compensate her.
She reduced the amount herself.
He called her impossible.
This had become a pattern.
The legal world around them grew uglier.
Conrad Kensington survived the gunshot.
Federal prosecutors charged him and Adrian with conspiracy, racketeering, bribery, illegal arms trafficking, obstruction, and multiple homicide-related offenses.
Victoria faced charges for unlawful confinement, assault, and child endangerment.
Her cooperation reduced but did not erase them.
Mateo testified about changing Isabella’s route.
No one charged him with knowing involvement in the bombing, but he resigned from Rossi Security anyway.
Leo shut the security division down.
Then he did something Chicago did not expect.
He announced he would cooperate with a federal investigation into his own organization.
The newspapers exploded.
Rossi Empire Cracks.
Crime Boss Turns Informant.
King of Chicago Surrenders Crown.
Beatrice hated all the headlines.
Not because they were unfair.
Because none mentioned Lily.
None mentioned Isabella.
None mentioned Marian.
Power had a way of centering powerful men even when women were the reason truth survived.
One afternoon, Beatrice found Leo in the Blue Room.
Not the literal blue room from another family.
This room had belonged to Isabella.
Painted deep navy.
Untouched since her death.
Leo held one of her scarves.
“I thought you didn’t come in here.”
“I didn’t.”
“Why now?”
He looked around.
“Because I kept thinking grief meant preserving everything.”
Beatrice sat near the window.
“It can.”
“It became an excuse.”
“For?”
“Not changing.”
He folded the scarf.
“After Isabella died, I told myself Lily needed stability. So I kept the house. The guards. The business. The same people.”
“Adrian.”
“Yes.”
“Mateo.”
“Yes.”
“Victoria.”
He looked at her.
“That was different.”
“Was it?”
Victoria and Leo had been expected to marry.
Not officially engaged.
But everyone assumed.
Beatrice had watched Victoria move through the mansion like a future queen.
“How?”
“I did not love her.”
“That makes it better?”
“No.”
“Why was she here?”
“Her father pushed the alliance. Adrian supported it. I thought it would protect Lily from business instability.”
Beatrice stared.
“You planned to marry a woman you did not love because powerful men said it was stable.”
He looked ashamed.
“Yes.”
“Lily almost died from your stability.”
“Yes.”
The answer came quietly.
Beatrice softened.
A little.
“You are doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Agreeing with everything so I cannot fight properly.”
“I can disagree if it helps.”
She almost smiled.
Leo sat across from her.
“I owe you more than money.”
“Do not.”
“What?”
“Turn me into a saint because I helped Lily.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She leaned forward.
“I stayed because I loved her. I fought Victoria because I was angry. I came to the lake house because I was terrified and could not live with myself if I didn’t. None of that makes me pure.”
Leo watched her.
“Who told you you had to be pure to be good?”
The question landed unexpectedly.
Beatrice looked away.
“My mother taught me to disappear.”
“She apologized.”
“In a letter.”
“She also told you to take up space.”
Beatrice laughed softly.
“You read too much over my shoulder.”
“I read one line.”
“You remember everything.”
“Only important things.”
She looked at him.
The room changed.
Not dramatically.
No music.
No thunder.
Just silence becoming aware of itself.
Leo’s gaze moved to her mouth.
Beatrice stood.
“Don’t.”
He did not move.
“I didn’t.”
“You were going to.”
“Yes.”
Her heart beat too fast.
“You cannot kiss me because you are grateful.”
“I know.”
“Or because I saved Lily.”
“I know.”
“Or because your entire life is collapsing and I am nearby.”
He nodded.
“That one is fair.”
She folded her arms.
“Then what?”
Leo stood slowly.
“Because you walk into rooms expecting people to underestimate you and then punish them for being stupid.”
She stared.
“That is possibly the worst romantic sentence ever spoken.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“You’re terrible.”
“I know.”
“There you go agreeing again.”
He smiled.
A real smile.
Beatrice’s stomach betrayed her.
She hated that.
“Leo.”
“Yes?”
“I worked in your house.”
“Past tense.”
“You still have power over my life.”
“I am trying to have less power over everyone’s life.”
“Trying is not done.”
“No.”
He stepped back.
The space was deliberate.
Respectful.
“Then I wait.”
Beatrice looked at him.
“You assume I’ll eventually say yes.”
“No.”
“What if I don’t?”
“Then I still wait until you decide that.”
Her throat tightened.
No man had ever framed wanting her as something she was allowed to refuse without penalty.
She hated how much that mattered.
Lily appeared in the doorway.
“You’re both weird.”
Beatrice laughed.
Leo closed his eyes.
“Privacy is apparently dead.”
“I need help with fifteen minus nine.”
Beatrice pointed at Leo.
“Visionary mathematics.”
Leo sighed.
“Six.”
Lily frowned.
“That’s not twelve.”
“No.”
“Bee said that.”
“Bee is usually right.”
Beatrice stared.
“Careful.”
He smiled.
Then Mateo arrived.
He looked thinner.
No suit.
No security earpiece.
Lily ran to him.
“Uncle Mateo!”
He hugged her.
The name still hurt.
Not because Mateo had betrayed them deliberately.
Because “uncle” had become dangerous.
Leo watched too.
Mateo noticed.
“I can leave.”
“No,” Leo said.
They sat in the library.
Mateo placed a folder on the table.
“I found something in Adrian’s old accounts.”
Leo’s face hardened.
“What?”
“A payment made two years ago after Isabella’s bombing.”
“To whom?”
Mateo looked at Beatrice.
“Marian Miller.”
She stopped breathing.
“My mother was dead by then.”
“Payment went to an account in her name.”
“How much?”
“Five hundred thousand.”
Beatrice stood.
“No.”
Leo opened the folder.
The signature looked like her mother’s.
But Marian had died five years before Isabella’s bombing.
Someone had used her identity.
Why?
Mateo turned another page.
“The account is still active.”
Beatrice stared.
“Who controls it?”
“We traced recent withdrawals.”
He hesitated.
“Someone using your Social Security number.”
Beatrice’s blood ran cold.
Identity theft.
A ghost account.
Her mother’s evidence had not just survived.
Someone had been using the Miller family name to move money.
Leo looked at Mateo.
“Who?”
“Not sure.”
“But?”
Mateo slid forward a security photograph from a bank ATM.
Beatrice picked it up.
A woman in a hood.
Older.
Broad shoulders.
Familiar posture.
Beatrice’s hands shook.
“No.”
Leo stood.
“What?”
Beatrice stared at the woman’s face.
The image was grainy.
But she knew.
A daughter knows the shape of her mother even through bad cameras and years of grief.
“My mother.”
The room went silent.
Mateo whispered, “Marian Miller died seven years ago.”
Beatrice looked at him.
“No.”
Her voice broke.
“Someone told me she did.”
The photograph of Marian at the ATM sent Beatrice into a fury before it gave her hope.
Hope would have been easier.
Fury felt safer.
“You’re sure?”
Mateo nodded.
“Facial comparison is strong.”
“Strong is not certain.”
“No.”
“Could be someone who looks like her.”
“Yes.”
“Could be old footage.”
“Timestamp is six months ago.”
Beatrice paced.
Leo watched but did not stop her.
“I saw her body.”
Mateo looked uncomfortable.
“Did you?”
She froze.
“What?”
“Hospital said closed-casket recommendation because of stroke complications.”
Beatrice remembered.
The coffin had been closed.
She had touched the wood.
Not her mother.
Wood.
Her knees weakened.
Leo stood.
She held up a hand.
“Don’t.”
He stopped.
Good.
She sat.
“Who identified her?”
Mateo checked.
“A hospital administrator. Family contact listed Evelyn King.”
Beatrice looked up.
“Evelyn.”
“Yes.”
Everything inside her reordered.
Evelyn had introduced Marian to Isabella.
Evelyn arranged disappearance once.
Maybe twice.
Leo said, “We call Evelyn.”
“No.”
He looked at her.
“Why?”
“If she lied for seven years, I want to know before she decides what truth I can handle.”
Mateo traced the account.
Rockford.
Assisted living payment.
Mary Bell.
Beatrice laughed bitterly.
“My mother hated the name Mary.”
“Could be deliberate,” Leo said.
“Of course.”
On the drive, Beatrice said almost nothing.
Leo sat beside her in the back.
Not touching.
She noticed.
“Why are you here?”
“To support you.”
“That is suspiciously healthy.”
“I have a therapist now.”
She stared.
“You?”
“Yes.”
“What did you do to him?”
“Her.”
“Even better.”
“She says sarcasm is avoidance.”
“Your therapist sounds wise.”
“She would like you.”
“I don’t need a reference.”
He smiled.
Then Beatrice’s expression changed.
“What if she chose this?”
“Marian?”
“What if she preferred being dead to being my mother?”
Leo answered carefully.
“Then that is about her capacity, not your worth.”
Beatrice looked at him.
“Therapy?”
“Direct quote.”
“I knew it.”
She laughed despite herself.
By the time they reached Rockford, her hands were shaking.
She looked at the apartment door.
Leo stood several feet back.
“Want me inside?”
“No.”
“Want me gone?”
“No.”
“Helpful.”
“Stand there.”
He did.
Beatrice knocked.
May you like
The door opened.
And seven years of grief looked back at her.
