Part 2: Four housekeepers fled our mansion in fourteen months, but the fifth walked in, looked at a feared 17-year-old mafia heir, and refused to break.

The Cavanaugh manor stood like a gothic fortress against the black sky, its iron gates yawning open as Eleanor’s rattling sedan rolled up the gravel driveway. The house was dead quiet. Two private guards nodded at the car from the shadows, unaware that the boy in the passenger seat had just learned their commanding officer had ordered his execution.

We slipped through the service entrance. Eleanor shoved me onto a wooden stool in the pantry and flicked on the single overhead bulb.

Within minutes, she had a bowl of warm antiseptic water, clean white towels, and a suture kit on the counter.

"Take off the jacket," she commanded.

I winced, peeling away the torn denim. My left side was a canvas of deep purple and mottled black. Two cracked ribs burned like fire with every breath, and a jagged two-inch laceration wept crimson near my collarbone.

"Marcus did this," I whispered, the reality finally cracking through my teenage bravado. "He’s been at my father's side for fifteen years. If he wants me dead... Toby and Julian aren't safe."

Eleanor pressed an alcohol-soaked gauze directly onto the cut. I hissed, grabbing the edge of the counter until my knuckles turned white.

"Marcus doesn't want you dead yet," she said with chilling precision as she threaded the curved surgical needle. "He wanted you crippled to trigger a war. If he wanted a corpse, you wouldn't have walked out of that alley."

I stared at her through blurry eyes. "How the hell do you know how to stitch a knife wound? Housekeepers don't carry suture thread in their aprons, Eleanor."

Her fingers didn't tremble as she pierced the edge of my skin, pulling the black thread taut. "I didn't spend my whole life vacuuming Persian rugs, Leo. In my twenties, I lived in South Boston. My husband ran collections for a crew that thought they were kings."

I stared at her, stunned. "What happened to him?"

"He thought his boss loved him like a brother," she tied off the first knot. "One night, his boss decided a payout was worth more than loyalty. They found him at the bottom of the Mystic River. I spent ten years watching men like Marcus Vane smile while they measure you for a coffin."

She cut the thread and wiped away the fresh blood. Her hands were rough from dish soap, but her touch on my bruised forehead was something I hadn't felt since my mother died eight years ago: genuine, unconditional protection.

"You're not going to your father yet," she said, looking straight into my soul. "Arthur is three hundred miles away in Chicago. If you call him, Marcus controls the comms. We handle this quietly until we have proof that leaves Marcus with no room to squirm."