Chapter 2 - The Shadow of the Past
The suite was silent save for the soft, steady patter of rain against the glass.
Willa did not move from the edge of the sofa. Her spine was rigid, her muscles locked in a state of high alert that had kept her alive for six years. Her eyes moved methodically around the room, taking in every exit, every heavy decorative object that could be used as a weapon, and the location of the double doors leading to the main corridor.
Six years ago, she had been Wilhelmina Vance—the only daughter of Marcus Vance, the syndicate's chief accountant and treasurer. Her life had been one of quiet luxury, filled with piano lessons, private tutors, and summers in France. But when her father discovered a massive embezzlement scheme run by senior members of the syndicate's council, he had tried to take his records to the federal authorities.
He never reached the courthouse.
His car was ambushed on the West Side Highway. That same night, their estate in Westchester was burned to the ground. Willa had escaped through a basement window into the woods, carrying nothing but a silver locket and the terror of a hunted animal.
Since that night, she had learned the art of invisibility. She took cash jobs, avoided government records, and never stayed in one apartment for more than six months. She had chosen tonight's catering shift at the Ashford Tower specifically because it paid two hundred dollars in cash at the end of the night—money she desperately needed to clear her back rent.
She had never intended to be seen. She had certainly never intended for a monster mastiff to lay his head on her feet.
The heavy oak doors of the suite clicked open.
Willa’s posture stiffened even further. Her hand instinctively drifted toward the silver tray she had brought with her, now resting on the side table, before she caught herself and dropped her hand back into her lap.
Kendrick Ashford stepped into the room.
He had removed his suit jacket, leaving him in his black vest and a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick forearms crossed with faint silver scars. In his right hand, he carried a crystal glass filled with dark amber bourbon.
Behind him, Titan ambled into the room, his heavy paws silent on the thick Persian rug. The dog glanced at Kendrick, then walked straight over to the sofa and dropped his massive weight onto the floor right at Willa’s knees, letting out a deep sigh of satisfaction.
Kendrick stood near the center of the room, sipping his drink, his sharp dark eyes observing the beast's behavior.
"He doesn't like people," Kendrick said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. "Titan was bred in Naples. He spent his first three years in a training camp in Serbia. He has bitten six men since I brought him to New York. Two of them lost the use of their hands."
Willa swallowed hard, her gaze remaining on the floor near Titan’s ears. "I didn't do anything to lure him, sir. I was just standing there."
"I know," Kendrick said. He walked over to a heavy leather armchair opposite her and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. "He doesn't like my lieutenants. He doesn't like the women Barrett brought into the room tonight. Yet he walked past fifteen daughters of bloodlines that date back to the Old Country, lay down on your shoes, and let you touch his head."
He leaned forward, setting his glass on the marble coffee table between them. "Why?"
"Dogs know when someone is afraid," Willa said quietly, forcing herself to raise her eyes to meet his. "And I was terrified."
"Everyone in that room was terrified," Kendrick countered smoothly. "The difference is, the women in silk were afraid of losing a title. You were afraid of being seen."
Willa felt a chill run down her spine. The intensity of his gaze was suffocating, as if he could peel back the layers of her cheap uniform and read the forged documents hidden in her small apartment.
"I’m just a waitress, Mr. Ashford," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her heart. "I came here to work a shift. My manager is probably looking for me. If I don't finish cleaning the secondary service bar, they’ll dock my pay."
Kendrick let out a short, dry breath that might have been a laugh. "Your manager spent the last twenty minutes apologizing to my security team for letting you onto the floor without a full background check. He has already been paid off, and your employment with his catering firm was terminated ten minutes ago."
Willa’s fingers clenched into the fabric of her skirt. "You fired me?"
"I removed you from a three-dollar-an-hour job," Kendrick corrected. He leaned back into his chair, studying her face. "My daughter spoke tonight."
The room went completely still.
"Penny hasn't made a sound in three years," Kendrick said, his tone dropping into something far darker, far more dangerous. "Not a word. Not a cry. Specialists from Boston, London, and Zurich sat in this tower for months, throwing therapies and drugs at her. She ignored them all. She locked herself behind a wall that no one could break."
He pointed a long finger toward the small hallway leading to the suite’s bedrooms. "Tonight, she looked at you, touched your hand, and spoke a full sentence."
"I don't know why she did that," Willa said, her voice rising slightly with desperation. "I’ve never met your daughter before tonight. I didn't say anything to her!"
"I don't care why she did it," Kendrick said coldly. "What matters is that she did. And in my world, when something works, I hold onto it."
He reached into his vest pocket, pulled out a sleek silver fountain pen and a folded document, and slid them across the marble table toward her.
Willa looked down at the paper. At the top, in heavy black lettering, were the words: RESIDENTIAL CARETAKER & COMPANION AGREEMENT.
"You will move into the Ashford estate in Westchester tomorrow morning," Kendrick said, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. "You will be Penny’s personal companion. You will live in the west wing, you will be provided a monthly stipend of twenty thousand dollars, and your sole duty will be to keep my daughter safe and comfortable."
Willa stared at the number on the page. Twenty thousand dollars a month. It was more money than she had seen in six years combined. It was enough to buy forged passports, to flee the country, to hide in South America or Europe forever.
It was also a trap.
Westchester. The Ashford estate was built less than five miles from the ruins of her childhood home. Moving into that house meant walking directly into the lion’s den, surrounding herself with the very men who had murdered her father.
And Barrett Vance—the man who had stood on the dais tonight, screaming for her removal—was the senior counselor to the syndicate. He would be there.
"And if I refuse?" Willa asked, her eyes lifting to Kendrick’s.
Kendrick leaned back, his amber-tinged eyes narrowing slightly. "Refuse? You have no money, no contract, and a catering manager who recorded your social security number as invalid during your hiring intake."
Willa froze.
"I ran your background five minutes before I walked through that door," Kendrick said softly, a dangerous edge in his voice. "Willa Reed doesn't exist before three years ago. Your tax records are a mess of cash deposits, your driver's license is registered to a mail drop in Brooklyn, and your references are fake."
He leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees, closing the distance between them.
"If I throw you out of this building tonight, Barrett’s men will pick you up at the street entrance. They think you’re a spy sent by the Chicago syndicate to infiltrate the selection ceremony. They will take you to a warehouse in Queens, and by tomorrow morning, nobody will ever hear your name again."
Willa held her breath, the blood roaring in her ears. He was right. Barrett had looked at her tonight with a strange, violent suspicion. If she stepped onto the street alone, she was a dead woman.
"So," Kendrick said, tapping the silver pen against the marble table. "You can take your chances in an alley with Barrett’s men... or you can sign the paper, take care of my daughter, and live under my protection."
Willa looked at the pen. She looked at Titan, who was resting his chin on her knee, his warm breathing seeping through her cheap stockings. She looked at the door leading to the hallway where the silent little girl was sleeping.
She picked up the pen.
Her hand trembled as she pressed the nib to the paper, signing the fake name she had carried for six years: Willa Reed.
May you like
Kendrick watched her write, a subtle, unreadable flick of emotion crossing his features as she finished the last letter. He picked up the paper, checked the signature, and stood up.
"Welcome to the family, Miss Reed," Kendrick said quietly. "Try to survive it."
