Chapter 5 - THE ESCAPE
The sheer terror in the room was suffocating.
Ben buried his face in my chest, his little hands gripping my shirt so tightly his knuckles turned white.
“Don’t point that at him!” I screamed, my voice tearing from my throat. “He’s a child!”
Officer Miller didn’t flinch. His eyes were cold, dead, and entirely focused on the leather book resting on the foot of the bed.
“I don’t care what he is,” Miller said flatly. “Arthur Bellini wants that book. And I want the fifty grand he promised me for retrieving it. Hand it over, Teresa.”
Teresa stood her ground. She was seventy-eight years old, frail, and trembling, but she held the heavy brass fireplace poker up like a sword.
“You sold your soul, David,” Teresa spat, her voice ringing with the fierce pride of a mafia matriarch. “You helped murder my son. You will not touch my grandson.”
Miller laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Matteo wasn’t your grandson, old woman.”
“I meant him,” Teresa said, pointing a shaking finger toward Benjamin.
Miller frowned, clearly confused. But the distraction was exactly what she wanted.
Teresa didn’t hesitate. She swung the heavy brass poker with all the strength she had left, aiming directly for the hand holding the gun.
CRACK.
The brass connected with bone. Miller howled in pain, his fingers instinctively opening. The gun clattered to the hardwood floor, sliding beneath the bed.
“Run!” Teresa screamed.
She lunged forward, throwing her small body against the much larger police officer, tackling him back toward the doorway.
“Mrs. Moretti, no!” I cried.
“Get the book to the FBI, Sarah! Go!” she yelled, as Miller viciously shoved her backward. Teresa hit the wall hard, slumping to the floor, gasping for air.
I didn’t have time to think. I didn’t have time to process the horror of leaving her behind.
I grabbed the heavy leather ledger and shoved it into my son’s walker pouch.
“Ben, we have to go, right now!” I said, grabbing his arm.
“My braces!” he cried, looking at his bare legs.
“There’s no time!”
I lifted my nine-year-old son into my arms. He was heavy, but the adrenaline rushing through my veins made him feel weightless. I grabbed the walker with my other hand.
Miller was recovering, scrambling toward the bed to find his dropped weapon.
I sprinted past him, into the hallway, leaving the guest suite behind.
“Stop her!” Miller roared to the officers downstairs.
I didn’t run toward the grand staircase. The foyer was swarming with corrupt police. Instead, I ran toward the back of the mansion, toward the servant’s quarters. I knew these hallways better than anyone. I had spent four years cleaning every inch of them.
I carried Ben down the narrow, uncarpeted back stairwell. My breath came in ragged gasps. Ben clung to my neck, sobbing quietly into my shoulder.
“It’s okay, baby, I’ve got you,” I whispered, though I was terrified.
We reached the ground floor kitchen. The massive stainless-steel room was dark and empty, the catering staff having fled hours ago.
I set Ben down in a rolling laundry cart near the pantry door, hiding him behind a pile of white linens. I tossed his walker in next to him.
“Stay down, Ben. Don’t make a sound,” I instructed, kissing his forehead.
Heavy boots pounded down the back stairwell. They were coming.
I frantically looked around the kitchen. The back door was electronically locked, and the security system had been engaged when the police breached the house. If I opened it, an alarm would sound, giving away our position instantly.
I noticed the large, industrial dumbwaiter in the corner of the kitchen. It was used to transport heavy trays of food up to the master suites. It was big enough to fit a person.
The boots reached the bottom of the stairs.
“Check the pantry!” a voice yelled.
I grabbed the laundry cart and shoved it violently across the smooth tile floor, sending it crashing into a rack of hanging copper pots.
The deafening clatter of metal echoed through the kitchen.
The two officers rushed toward the noise, their guns drawn.
While their backs were turned, I opened the dumbwaiter doors, grabbed Ben and his walker from the cart, and threw us inside the metal box. I hit the button for the basement level and yanked the heavy doors shut just as the officers turned around.
The dumbwaiter jerked, then began a slow, grinding descent.
It was pitch black inside. The metal box smelled like old grease and cleaning supplies. Ben buried his face in my chest, trembling violently.
“Are we going to die, Mommy?” he whispered in the dark.
“No, sweetheart,” I said, stroking his hair. “We’re going to be perfectly fine. I promise.”
The dumbwaiter jolted to a stop. We were in the basement wine cellar.
I pushed the doors open. The cellar was damp, cold, and lit only by emergency exit signs.
I knew this room. I knew that behind the third wine rack on the left was an old Prohibition-era smuggling tunnel that led directly to the estate’s private boathouse on Lake Michigan. Luca had shown it to me once, casually mentioning it while I was polishing the wine glasses.
I helped Ben out of the dumbwaiter. Without his braces, he couldn't walk. I carried him again, my arms aching, my chest burning.
I found the hidden latch behind the wine rack. I pulled it, and a heavy stone door swung open, revealing a dark, earthen tunnel.
We slipped inside, and I pulled the stone door shut behind us.
The air in the tunnel was thick and musty. I turned on the flashlight app on my phone, casting a weak beam of light ahead of us.
We walked for what felt like an eternity. The ground was uneven, and every step sent a jolt of pain up my back. But I couldn't stop. Arthur Bellini’s ledger was heavy in the pouch of the walker I was dragging behind me. The lives of everyone in the Moretti family depended on me getting it to the FBI.
Finally, the tunnel began to slope upward. I saw a faint sliver of moonlight ahead.
We reached the end of the tunnel and pushed through a wooden trapdoor.
We emerged into the boathouse.
The smell of gasoline and lake water filled the air. Gentle waves lapped against the wooden pylons. Moored in the center of the boathouse was a sleek, black speedboat.
“We made it, Ben,” I gasped, setting him down gently on the wooden dock.
I grabbed his walker and pulled the heavy leather ledger out of the pouch.
But as I turned toward the speedboat, the boathouse lights suddenly clicked on, blinding me.
I threw my hand up to shield my eyes.
Standing on the deck of the speedboat, holding a suppressed pistol, was Michael Moretti.
“I’m sorry, Sarah,” Michael said, his voice trembling as he aimed the gun at my chest. “But I can’t let you take that book to the FBI. Arthur promised me a new life in Europe if I bring it to him.”
I froze, terror gripping my heart. Michael hadn't fled to Sicily. He had been waiting for the ledger.
“Michael, please,” I begged, pulling Ben behind my legs. “Arthur will kill you the second you hand it over! He doesn't leave loose ends!”
“He’s my only chance!” Michael shouted, tears streaming down his face. “Luca is going to prison because of me! The family is destroyed! If I give Arthur the book, he’ll let me live!”
He stepped off the boat onto the dock, holding out his free hand.
“Give me the ledger, Sarah.”
I clutched the book to my chest. “No.”
Michael cocked the gun. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I will.”
I closed my eyes, preparing for the end.
Suddenly, a small voice broke the silence.
“Leave my mommy alone.”
I opened my eyes in shock.
Benjamin had stepped out from behind me. Without his braces. Without his walker.
He took one shaky, agonizing step forward. Then another.
His bare feet slapped against the wooden dock. His knees trembled so violently I thought they would snap. But he didn't fall.
He stood directly between Michael’s gun and my heart.
“You can’t hurt her,” my brave, terrified nine-year-old son said, tears streaming down his face. “Because she’s my mommy. And she promised to come home with me.”
Michael stared at the crippled little boy standing in front of his gun.
The gun in Michael’s hand began to shake.
He looked at Ben. Then at me. Then at the ledger.
Slowly, agonizingly, Michael lowered the weapon.
He dropped to his knees on the wooden dock and buried his face in his hands, sobbing uncontrollably.
“I can’t do it,” Michael wept. “I’m a coward. I’m a pathetic coward.”
I didn't hesitate. I grabbed Ben, pulling him into my arms, kissing his tear-streaked face. “You walked, baby. You walked all by yourself.”
“I didn't want him to hurt you,” Ben sobbed into my shoulder.
I looked at Michael, kneeling on the dock.
“Take the boat, Michael,” I said quietly. “Run. Go as far away as you can.”
Michael looked up, his eyes bloodshot and filled with shame. He didn't say a word. He stood up, climbed into the speedboat, and started the engine. The boat roared out of the boathouse, disappearing into the dark expanse of Lake Michigan.
I stood on the dock holding my son and the ledger that would destroy an empire.
We were alone.
But as the sound of the boat faded into the distance, a new sound replaced it.
The slow, rhythmic clapping of hands.
From the shadows near the entrance of the boathouse, a massive figure stepped into the light.
May you like
It was Arthur Bellini.
“A touching scene,” Arthur smiled, pulling a heavy revolver from his coat. “But I’m afraid the brave little boy’s efforts were wasted. Hand me the book, Sarah. Or I’ll blow both of your heads off right now.”
