Chapter 3 - THE GLOVES THAT BELONGED TO A DEAD WOMAN
Adrian raised the gun, aiming directly at Marco’s chest.
“Don't move,” Adrian said smoothly.
Marco froze, his hand hovering over his holstered weapon.
“Uncle Adrian?” Sophie whispered from the chair, her voice trembling.
Adrian looked at his niece. His smile didn't reach his eyes.
“Hello, Sophie. It’s time to go see Mommy.”
I stepped instantly in front of the little girl, shielding her with my body.
“You’re not touching her,” I said. My voice shook, but I didn't move.
Adrian chuckled. “A brave housekeeper. How tragic.”
He turned his attention back to Marco. “Slide your weapon across the floor, Marco. Slowly.”
Marco glared at him, but he slowly unholstered his gun and kicked it across the polished tile.
“What did you do to Dominic?” Marco growled.
“My brother is currently exploring the old root cellar beneath the conservatory,” Adrian smiled. “A rather fitting tomb, don't you think? Heavy steel doors. Soundproof. The air should run out in a few hours.”
My stomach plummeted.
Dominic was trapped.
“Why, Adrian?” Marco asked, trying to keep him talking. “Dominic gave you half the legitimate businesses. You have millions.”
“Legitimate businesses,” Adrian spat the word like poison. “Dominic wants to turn this family into a corporation. He wants to play by the rules. Our father built this empire in blood, Marco. And Dominic is letting it rot.”
Adrian looked at his gloved hands.
“He became weak. The moment he married Grace, he lost his edge. He wanted to be a family man.”
Adrian stepped closer, the gun unwavering.
“So, I removed the distraction.”
The room went dead silent.
“You killed Grace,” I breathed.
Adrian didn't flinch.
“I merely accelerated the inevitable. Grace was a civilian. She didn't belong in our world.”
“You identified the body,” Marco said, realization dawning on his face. “The car crash on Route 9.”
“A masterpiece of misdirection,” Adrian smirked. “A stolen car, a tragic fire. The police were more than happy to accept the word of the grieving brother-in-law.”
He looked down at the dark leather gloves he was wearing.
“Grace fought, of course. She was surprisingly strong for a woman her size. She managed to scratch my arm before I pushed her into the river.”
He held up his hands.
“Which is why I kept her favorite driving gloves. A little souvenir. And very useful for not leaving fingerprints tonight.”
I stared at the gloves.
Grace’s gloves.
Answer one: Adrian had murdered Grace to force Dominic back into the ruthless life of a mafia boss.
Open two: If Grace died in the river, why did Sophie have a key to the conservatory? And why was there a coroner’s van waiting outside?
“Move away from the girl, Hannah,” Adrian ordered, aiming the gun at my head.
“No.”
“I don't have time for this. The van is waiting to dispose of you and the guard. Sophie is coming with me.”
“Why do you need her?” I cried.
“Because as long as she’s alive, Dominic still has a heart,” Adrian said coldly. “Once she’s gone, he’ll be empty. And an empty man is a ruthless man.”
He cocked the pistol.
“Move.”
Before I could react, Marco lunged.
He didn't go for Adrian. He went for the master control panel on the desk.
Marco slammed his fist onto a massive red button.
Instantly, the entire mansion plunged into total darkness.
Emergency sirens began shrieking at a deafening pitch. Red strobe lights flashed through the hallways, blinding and chaotic.
“Run, Hannah!” Marco roared.
Adrian fired blindly in the strobe lights. The gunshot was muted by the suppressor, but the glass monitor behind Marco shattered.
I grabbed Sophie, scooping her into my arms, and bolted out the second door of the security office.
We ran blindly down the servant’s corridor.
The red strobe lights made everything look like a nightmare. Sophie buried her face in my shoulder, crying silently.
I didn't stop until we reached the kitchen pantry.
I ducked inside, locking the heavy wooden door behind us, hiding behind bags of flour and rice.
I held Sophie tight, trying to quiet my own ragged breathing.
“Is he coming?” Sophie whimpered.
“No, baby. We’re safe here.”
But my mind was racing.
Adrian had locked Dominic in the root cellar beneath the conservatory.
I knew the conservatory. I had cleaned the glass panes a week ago.
And I remembered something my father had taught me when we lived in our old farmhouse in Ohio.
“Old root cellars don't just have doors, Hannah. They have ventilation shafts to keep the vegetables from rotting.”
If the conservatory had a root cellar, it had an air vent.
I looked down at Sophie.
“Sophie. I need you to be very brave.”
She looked up at me with tear-stained eyes.
“I have to go help your daddy,” I whispered. “Can you stay here and hide?”
She shook her head violently, clutching my shirt. “No! Don't leave me!”
“I won't let him get you. I promise.”
I took off my silver necklace—a cheap locket my father had given me—and placed it in her small hand.
“Hold this. As long as you hold this, I’m coming back for you.”
She gripped the locket, tears falling down her cheeks.
I kissed her forehead, unlocked the pantry door, and slipped out into the flashing red hallway.
I crept through the mansion, avoiding the main corridors, heading for the back garden doors.
I slipped outside into the cool night air.
The garden was dark, the emergency strobes illuminating the massive glass structure of the conservatory in the distance.
I ran across the lawn, my sneakers silent on the damp grass.
When I reached the conservatory, I began searching the perimeter.
I crawled through the bushes, running my hands along the old stone foundation.
Finally, near the back wall, my fingers brushed against a rusted iron grate hidden behind overgrown ivy.
The ventilation shaft.
I pulled the ivy away.
“Mr. Romano!” I called down into the dark grate. “Dominic!”
No answer.
I leaned closer, pressing my face against the cold iron.
“Dominic, please!”
A faint sound echoed from the darkness below.
Not a voice.
A rhythmic tapping against metal.
Three short taps. Three long taps. Three short taps.
S.O.S.
He was alive.
But as I grabbed the rusted grate to pull it open, a heavy hand clamped down on my shoulder.
I gasped, spinning around.
Standing behind me was Victoria Bellini.
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And she was holding a heavy iron gardening trowel, raised above her head.
TITLE: THE TROWEL IN THE OVERGROWN IVY
