Her Own In-Laws Left Her Helpless at a Bus Stop—Then the Mafia Boss Made a Decision That Changed Her Life

By noon, the estate on Blackstone Boulevard had settled into a quiet, humming routine that felt less like a domestic household and more like a high-security intelligence cell.

Scarlet sat at a massive mahogany table in the sunroom, a cup of green tea steaming beside her right hand. Ruth had quietly provided her with a stack of local newspapers and a ledger dating back six months, treating Scarlet not as a guest or a charity case, but as a new puzzle piece that needed a defined job description.

The double doors swung open, and Dominic Renzy walked in, his heavy overcoat dripping with melted sleet. He tossed a thick brown envelope onto the center of the table, narrowly missing Scarlet’s teacup.

"The background check you asked for, Boss," Dominic muttered, though Garrison wasn't even in the room. Dom pulled out a chair, sat down heavily, and glared at Scarlet with unconcealed suspicion. "I ran her past every hospital record, every utility bill, every neighbor in Woonsocket and South Providence. You know what I found?"

Scarlet didn't look up from her tea. "A lack of imagination on your part?"

Dominic narrowed his eyes, leaning forward. "I found nothing. Clean as a whistle. Which makes me nervous. People don't live in this city for twenty-seven years without stepping on someone's toes, without a debt, without a dirty uncle or a shady landlord. But her? She paid her taxes, she graded spelling tests, she volunteered at the community soup kitchen on Saturdays until her car wrapped around a telephone pole."

"People can be ordinary, Mr. Renzy," Scarlet said calmly, finally lifting her eyes to meet his heavy, scarred gaze. "Not everyone in Rhode Island is hiding a body in their basement."

"In this house?" Dominic scoffed, leaning back and pulling out an unlit cigar. "Everyone is hiding a body, Miss Bennett. The only question is whether you're holding the shovel or digging your own grave."

Before Scarlet could retort, the doorway darkened.

Garrison stood there, his shoulders filling the frame, his face carved from cold stone. He had heard the last sentence.

"Dominic," Garrison said, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made the older enforcer instantly straighten up. "Leave."

"Boss, we got the New York delegation arriving at the docks by Friday—"

"I said, leave."

Dominic grunted, grabbed his manila folder, and stood up. As he passed Scarlet’s chair, he muttered under his breath, "Don't get too comfortable, teacher. Winter in Providence is short, but graves stay cold forever."

When the doors clicked shut, Garrison walked over to the table. He didn't sit down. He looked at the empty cup of tea, then down at Scarlet’s hands, which were resting flat on the mahogany wood.

"He does his job," Garrison said quietly. "His job is to suspect everyone."

"Including me?" Scarlet asked, tilting her head up, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, intelligent spark that hadn't been beaten out of her by fourteen months of paralysis. "If you wanted a pet, Mr. Garrison, you should have gone to the shelter on Pine Street. They have plenty of dogs that don't talk back."

Garrison was silent for a long moment. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch played at the corner of his mouth.

"A dog bites when it's cornered," Garrison said softly. "You bite when you're bored."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy brass key, placing it gently beside her teacup.

"What is this?" Scarlet asked, staring at the key.

"The library down the hall," Garrison said, turning toward the door. "Leo spent three hours sitting on the bottom step today, drawing in that notebook you gave him. When he finished, he didn't go back to his room. He went into the library. The door has been locked for three years."

Scarlet stared at the brass key, her breath catching in her throat.

"Why give it to me?" she whispered.