Chapter 6 - THE PANIC ROOM
"Get under the bed," I hissed, grabbing Abigail by the shoulders.
The thirteen-year-old was paralyzed with fear. I shoved her down onto the thick carpet, pushing her beneath the heavy oak frame of her canopy bed.
"Don't make a sound," I whispered, sliding in right beside her.
The mansion was completely pitch black. The silence that followed the gunfire in the hallway was heavier than the dark.
I pulled my cell phone from my apron, turning the brightness all the way down. No signal. The estate's cell jammers had been activated. Someone on the inside had triggered the security protocol to trap us.
Footsteps approached the bedroom door.
Heavy, deliberate boots.
Not Marco's men.
The brass doorknob rattled. I held my breath, pulling Abigail tight against my chest. Her little heart was beating so fast I could feel it through the blue dress.
"It's locked," a gruff male voice muttered in Italian.
"Shoot the hinges," another voice replied.
BANG. BANG.
Wood splintered. The heavy oak door was violently kicked open, crashing against the interior wall. Flashlight beams swept across the dark bedroom, dancing over the vanity, the closet, and the mattress directly above our heads.
"Check the bathroom," the first man ordered.
I closed my eyes. They were going to find us. It was only a matter of seconds.
Then, I remembered something Luca had mentioned to a contractor months ago when I was cleaning his office. Every family bedroom has a secondary exit.
I carefully reached my hand up, feeling the wooden slats beneath Abigail's mattress.
My fingers brushed against cold metal. A latch.
I pulled it.
With a soft, hydraulic hiss, the floorboards beneath us sank backward, revealing a narrow, pitch-black chute.
I grabbed Abigail’s hand and pulled her down with me.
We slid into the darkness just as a flashlight beam swept beneath the bed. The floorboards clicked silently back into place above us.
We tumbled down a padded slide, landing softly in a small, concrete-walled room. Emergency red LED lights flickered to life.
It was the estate's panic room.
It was no bigger than a walk-in closet, stocked with water, first-aid kits, and a heavy steel door that could only be opened from the inside.
Abigail was shaking violently, crying without making a sound.
"We're safe," I whispered, wrapping my arms around her. "The steel is reinforced. They can't get in here."
She buried her face in my shoulder. "Miss Emily, why are they doing this? Why does Vanessa hate us so much?"
I stroked her hair, my mind racing. "It isn't just Vanessa, sweetheart. Vanessa's family wants your father's business. But there's something else. Something about your mother."
I thought about the missing silver bracelet. The forged letter written by my mother. The stolen paper with the numbers 4-9-2-1.
"Abigail," I said softly. "The paper Vanessa stole from your flower book... what exactly was it?"
Abigail wiped her eyes, taking a shuddering breath.
"It was a photograph," she whispered.
"A photograph of who?"
"My mother," Abigail said. "But she wasn't alone. She was standing next to a man. And there was writing on the back."
"What did the writing say?"
"It said, The man who holds the key. And the numbers 4-9-2-1."
"Did you recognize the man in the photo?" I asked.
Abigail hesitated. "He looked like Uncle Marco."
My heart stopped completely.
Marco. Luca’s head of security. The man who had been trusted to guard Abigail's door tonight. The man who had supposedly been ambushed in the hallway.
If Marco was the man in the photograph, he wasn't Luca’s loyal soldier. He was the traitor. He was the one who cut the power. He was the one who let the hitmen into the house.
And he was the one who had driven my mother and Caroline the night the brakes failed.
Suddenly, the intercom speaker on the concrete wall crackled to life.
"Emily," a deep, calm voice echoed through the panic room.
It was Marco.
"I know you're in there," Marco said. "The hydraulic sensors triggered the security panel. You can't call out. Luca is trapped downtown. And the Bellinis are taking over the ports as we speak."
I pulled Abigail behind me, staring at the intercom.
"What do you want, Marco?" I yelled back, my voice shaking.
"I want the girl," Marco replied. "Vanessa needs her. As long as Abigail is alive, Luca's assets remain locked in her trust. Vanessa's forgery wasn't enough to break him. We need leverage."
"You killed her mother!" I screamed, the horrifying truth finally snapping into place. "You severed the brakes! And you paid my mother to write that letter to frame Luca!"
Marco chuckled, a dark, hollow sound.
"Your mother was a junkie, Emily. She needed money for her medical bills. She sold Caroline out for twenty thousand dollars. And she wrote that letter willingly."
Tears streamed down my face. Everything I had worked for, every sacrifice I had made for my mother, was built on blood money.
"Open the door, Emily," Marco commanded. "Or I'll pump carbon monoxide through the ventilation shafts. You have sixty seconds."
I looked around the tiny concrete room in absolute panic. He was telling the truth. There was a vent above the door.
I looked at Abigail. The brave thirteen-year-old girl stood up, wiping her tears.
"Don't open it, Miss Emily," she said firmly. "My daddy is coming. I know he is."
I grabbed a roll of duct tape from the emergency supplies and dragged a chair to the vent, frantically sealing the metal grating.
"Forty seconds," Marco's voice echoed.
I sealed the last corner of the vent, dropping to the floor. We were trapped. There was no other exit.
"Twenty seconds."
I pulled Abigail into my arms, closing my eyes, praying for a miracle.
Then, through the thick steel walls, I heard a different sound.
May you like
Not gunfire.
The unmistakable roar of a helicopter engine.
