Chapter 7 - THE PHOTOGRAPH
BANG.
The heavy steel door of the safe room shuddered. Dust fell from the ceiling, catching in the beam of Matteo’s flashlight.
Sofia screamed, burying her face into my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her tightly, rocking her, whispering promises I didn't know if I could keep.
BANG.
"They're using a hydraulic breach," Matteo said. His voice was entirely devoid of panic. He was already moving. He opened a hidden compartment under the cot and pulled out an assault rifle, checking the magazine with practiced efficiency.
"How long will the door hold?" I asked over the ringing in my ear.
"Ten minutes. Maybe less." Matteo slammed the magazine home. "If Vincent is breaching this room, it means he controls the entire east wing. My loyal men are either dead or pinned down."
"Then we're trapped."
"No," Matteo said, his eyes scanning the walls. "There is an emergency exhaust vent behind that panel. It leads up to the ventilation shaft on the second floor. I built it in case of a fire."
He rushed to the wall and pulled off a metal grate, revealing a narrow, dark tunnel.
"It's too small for me," Matteo said, looking at me. "But you and Sofia can fit. It will drop you in the hallway near my private office."
"I'm not leaving you!" I said, panic rising in my chest.
"You have to," Matteo insisted, grabbing my shoulders. "Listen to me, Lily. Vincent is going to kill us all to cover up what he did to Elena and your brother. But the Syndicate bosses are arriving at dawn for the quarterly meeting. If they find out Vincent killed my wife, they will skin him alive. He knows this."
"So we need proof," I realized.
"We need the recorder," Matteo said. "The real one. Not the watch he left to mock me."
"But where did he hide it?"
I closed my eyes, forcing my panicked mind to think. You observe everything, Matteo had said. Where would Vincent hide the most damning piece of evidence in his life?
Not in the library. Not in his bedroom.
"His office," I said, opening my eyes. "Two days ago, I was cleaning the hallway. I saw him replacing a floorboard under his mahogany desk. I thought he was fixing a squeak. But he was creating a stash."
Matteo nodded sharply. "Go through the vent. Get to his office. Find the recorder. I will hold the door and buy you time. When the Syndicate bosses arrive, you play that tape."
BANG.
The hinges on the steel door groaned, visibly bowing inward.
"Go!" Matteo yelled.
I didn't argue. I hoisted Sofia up into the vent, then scrambled in after her. It was tight, dark, and smelled of dust and metal. We crawled on our hands and knees in the pitch black, the sounds of the battering ram echoing beneath us like a heartbeat.
After what felt like hours, we reached the grate. I kicked it open, and we tumbled out onto the plush carpet of the second-floor hallway.
The estate was eerily quiet up here. The emergency lights cast long, red shadows.
"Stay right behind me, Sofia," I whispered, taking her hand.
We crept down the hall to Vincent’s office. The door was unlocked. I pushed it open and rushed to the heavy mahogany desk. I dropped to my knees, running my hands over the hardwood floor underneath it.
There. A slight gap in the wood.
I dug my fingernails in and pried the board up.
Inside the small hollow space lay the black plastic recording device.
"I got it," I whispered, tears of relief pricking my eyes.
But as I pulled the recorder out, my fingers brushed against something else. Paper.
I reached back in and pulled out a small, faded photograph.
I held it up to the emergency light.
It was a picture of three men, taken years ago at a restaurant. I recognized Vincent, looking younger, holding up a glass of wine.
Beside him sat a rival mafia boss I recognized from the news.
But the third man made my blood run cold.
It was Matteo’s father.
On the back of the photograph, written in neat, elegant handwriting, were two sentences:
Elena asked too many questions. The family must be protected.
My breath hitched.
Vincent hadn't betrayed the Romano family by killing Elena.
He had done it on the orders of Matteo’s own father. The old boss had ordered the hit on his own daughter-in-law because she was going to expose them, and Vincent had executed it. Vincent wasn't a rogue traitor. He was the loyal soldier carrying out the old king's final command.
Suddenly, the lights in the office snapped on. Blindingly bright.
I spun around, clutching the recorder and the photograph to my chest.
May you like
Vincent Cole stood in the doorway, a silencer-equipped pistol aimed directly at my head.
"You always were a little too observant for a maid, Lily," Vincent smiled.
