Chapter 5 - The Greenhouse
The rain had started. Heavy, cold Philadelphia rain that turned the estate’s manicured lawns into slick, dangerous mud.
Roman didn't wait for umbrellas. He marched out the back French doors, the rusted iron key gripped in his hand. Marco had returned from the train station, but Roman ordered him to keep the bag sealed and follow him.
I followed right behind them, holding my apron over my head. I didn't want to go out into the dark, but Roman had looked at me and said, "Stay close to me." It wasn't a request.
Adriana was forced to walk between two of Marco’s massive security men, her ruined designer heels sinking into the mud. She was quiet now. The screaming had stopped. That scared me more than her threats.
The old greenhouse sat at the far edge of the property, surrounded by overgrown willow trees. It hadn't been used in a decade. The glass was cracked, the wrought-iron frame rusted.
Roman shoved the heavy key into the rusted padlock on the wooden doors. It groaned, fought him, then finally clicked open.
He pulled the doors apart. The smell of damp earth, rotting wood, and mold hit us instantly.
Marco clicked on a heavy tactical flashlight, cutting a beam through the suffocating darkness.
"Maria?" Roman called out.
Silence.
My chest tightened. We were too late. Adriana had already sent someone to clean up her mess.
But then, a shuffling sound came from the back corner, behind a massive, dead terracotta planter.
Marco swept the light over.
Sitting on the dirt floor, shivering violently, was Maria Santos. Her uniform was torn, her lip was split, and her hands were bound with zip ties. But she was alive.
"Maria!" I gasped, running forward. I dropped to my knees in the mud, tearing at the thick plastic zip ties around her wrists.
Roman knelt beside me, pulling a sleek folding knife from his pocket. In one swift motion, he cut the ties.
Maria sobbed, grabbing Roman’s arm. "Mr. DeLuca... thank God. Thank God."
"Who did this to you, Maria?" Roman asked, his voice deadly calm. He didn't look at Adriana. He wanted to hear it from Maria.
Maria looked past the flashlight beam, locking eyes with Adriana.
"She did," Maria wept. "She caught me taking the watch. She had two men drag me out here. She said she was going to let me starve to death so it wouldn't look like a murder."
Adriana scoffed, rolling her eyes. "She's hysterical. Look at her."
"Why did you take the watch, Maria?" Roman asked, ignoring his fiancée.
"Because I found out what she was really doing," Maria said, her voice shaking. "It wasn't just the medicine, Mr. DeLuca. The poison was just to keep you tired. To keep your mother confused. So you wouldn't notice the money."
Roman’s brow furrowed. "What money?"
"The trust," Maria whispered. "Leo’s trust fund."
Marco stepped forward, holding the heavy duffel bag he had retrieved from the 30th Street Station using the claim ticket.
"Open it," Roman commanded.
Marco unzipped the bag. Inside, stacked in neat, banded rows, were hundreds of thousands of dollars in cash.
But that wasn't what made Roman freeze.
Sitting on top of the cash were two passports. One belonged to Adriana.
The other belonged to six-year-old Leo.
Adriana wasn't just going to poison Roman. She was going to kidnap the heir to the DeLuca empire and flee to Italy, leaving Roman drugged, his mother dead, and me framed for it all.
"You insane bitch," Roman whispered, standing up. He looked at Adriana with a coldness that made my blood run icy. "You were going to take my brother's son."
Adriana didn't cower this time. The game was up, and she knew it. She straightened her posture, brushing the mud from her ruined coat.
"He's a brat," Adriana said coldly. "And this family owes me. My father gave you control of the ports, Roman. He gave you power. And what did I get? A ring and a cold bed."
"You get nothing," Roman said. "Marco, put her in the trunk. Take her to her father. Tell him the wedding is off, and if he ever steps foot in Philadelphia again, I will burn his house to the ground with him in it."
The security men grabbed Adriana's arms.
But as they pulled her backward, Adriana’s hand violently jerked into the pocket of her coat.
She wasn't grabbing a phone.
She pulled out a small, silver derringer pistol.
She didn't aim it at Roman. She didn't aim it at Marco.
May you like
She aimed it directly at my chest.
"You just had to take the dinner plate," Adriana hissed, her finger pulling the trigger.
