Chapter 5 - THE LAUNDRY CHUTE
The slide down the laundry chute felt like an eternity of terrifying darkness.
The metal scraped against my shoulders and arms as I held Anthony tightly to my chest, using my body as a shield. The smell of smoke faded, replaced by the damp, metallic scent of the basement.
We hit the bottom with a hard, jarring thud, tumbling out onto a pile of canvas laundry bags.
Anthony let out a sharp cry of pain, but I quickly clamped my hand over his mouth.
“Shh,” I whispered fiercely, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure it echoed in the cavernous room.
The basement was pitch black, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering through the small ground-level windows near the ceiling.
I carefully shifted Anthony off me and sat up, gripping the heavy metal pistol Dominic had pressed into my hand. It felt cold and foreign in my grip. I had never fired a gun in my life. I barely knew how to hold it.
Answer One: We had survived the fire.
But the tension in the room was suffocating.
Open Two: Was Dominic still alive upstairs? And where was Marcus?
I strained my ears, listening to the heavy silence of the basement.
Upstairs, I could hear the faint, muffled sounds of shouting and the crackle of burning wood. The fire alarms were finally blaring in the distance.
But down here, it was dead quiet.
Too quiet.
I slowly stood up, keeping Anthony behind me. I pointed the gun toward the heavy steel door that led to the basement hallway.
“Clara,” Anthony whispered, tugging on my apron. “I’m scared.”
“I know, honey,” I breathed. “Stay right behind me.”
We took one step forward.
Then another.
Suddenly, the heavy steel door creaked open.
A beam of bright white light swept across the room from a heavy-duty flashlight.
I pulled Anthony behind a massive industrial washing machine, my back pressing against the cold metal.
Footsteps echoed on the concrete floor. Slow, deliberate, heavy boots.
Marcus.
“I know you’re down here, Clara,” Marcus’s deep voice echoed through the basement. “The smoke detectors upstairs went off, but the heat sensors in the laundry chute got triggered too.”
I held my breath, squeezing my eyes shut.
“You’re a smart girl,” Marcus continued, his footsteps getting closer. “Too smart to die over a boss who doesn’t even know your last name. Hand over the boy, and I’ll let you walk out the back door. You can go take care of your sick mother.”
My blood ran cold.
The reversal hit me.
Marcus didn’t just betray Dominic. He had researched me. He knew about my mother. He knew my vulnerabilities.
“Think about it, Clara,” Marcus said, his voice dangerously smooth. “Dominic is probably dead by now. The door was solid oak, but fire is fire. The Romanos are taking over tonight. Don’t die for a lost cause.”
I looked down at Anthony. The little boy was trembling, tears streaming silently down his cheeks. He looked exactly like the terrified elderly patients I used to protect.
He was innocent.
I tightened my grip on the gun.
I wasn’t going to let this monster take him.
I peeked around the edge of the washing machine.
Marcus was standing near the center of the room, his flashlight sweeping the corners. His gun was drawn, held casually in his right hand.
I remembered something my father had taught me when I was a teenager, working late nights in his auto shop.
“Distraction is better than a direct hit, Clara. Make them look the wrong way.”
I reached into the pocket of my black apron.
My fingers closed around a heavy brass padlock I had found on the kitchen counter earlier that day.
I took a deep breath, aimed for the far corner of the room, and threw the heavy lock as hard as I could.
It smashed into a stack of empty glass detergent bottles with a loud, shattering crash.
Marcus spun instantly, firing two silenced shots into the dark corner. Pfft. Pfft.
Without hesitating, I stepped out from behind the washing machine.
I raised Dominic’s gun with both hands, aimed at the center of Marcus’s massive frame, and pulled the trigger.
The explosion in the enclosed basement was deafening.
The recoil threw me backward, my shoulders slamming into the washing machine.
Marcus dropped his flashlight. He stumbled back, clutching his shoulder, a look of pure shock on his face.
He hadn’t expected the housekeeper to shoot.
He fell to his knees, groaning in pain.
I didn’t wait to see if he would get up.
I grabbed Anthony’s hand and ran.
We sprinted past Marcus, out the steel door, and down the dark basement hallway.
We burst through the heavy storm doors and out into the cool, crisp Chicago night.
The fresh air filled my burning lungs.
But as we ran across the wet grass toward the rear gate of the estate, a pair of headlights suddenly flashed on, blinding us.
A black SUV blocked the exit.
The doors opened, and four men in dark suits stepped out.
The Romanos had arrived.
And stepping out of the passenger side, looking completely unharmed and perfectly composed, was Vanessa.
She smiled, holding a silver revolver.
“Hello, Clara,” Vanessa said softly. “You really are a terrible housekeeper. You left a mess upstairs.”
I pulled Anthony behind me, pointing my shaking gun at Vanessa.
But before I could speak, a voice rang out from the shadows behind the SUV.
“Drop the gun, Vanessa.”
A woman stepped into the light of the headlamps.
She had dark hair, striking features, and she was wearing a long black coat.
May you like
Anthony gasped.
“Mommy?”
