Chapter 5 - THE BURNING STUDY
“LEO!”
Marco kicked the SUV door open before the vehicle had even come to a complete stop.
“Marco, wait!” I shouted, grabbing the trauma bag and sprinting after him into the cold downpour.
The heat hit us thirty yards away. Thick, pungent smoke—the smell of burning ancient cedar, varnish, and century-old paper—poured from the fractured second-story glass of the study.
Two of Victor’s private security guards stepped into the driveway to block Marco’s path.
David didn't hesitate. He leveled his firearm, fired twice into the engine block of Victor’s parked town car, and screamed with the full force of his lungs:
“GET OUT OF THE WAY OR I PUT YOU IN THE DIRT!”
The guards hesitated. They were paid muscle, not suicidal loyalists. Seeing Marco Bellini charging like an enraged bull, backed by David’s steady aim, they scattered into the shadows of the surrounding pine trees.
Victor didn't run. He turned slowly toward us, the orange glow of the burning study flickering across his silver hair. He held an antique silver lighter in his right hand, casually flipping the lid open and closed with a metallic *clink-clack*.
“You’re too late, Marco,” Victor said, his voice raised over the roar of the flames. “A terrible accident. Faulty wiring in an old house. Dominic’s dusty relics are finally at peace.”
Marco didn't even look at his uncle. He drove his shoulder straight into Victor’s chest, knocking the older man sprawling onto the wet grass, and charged up the stone steps of the front terrace.
“Where is Leo?” Sofia screamed, grabbing Victor’s collar from the ground. “WHERE IS MY BROTHER?”
Victor coughed, wiping wet mud from his jaw, and laughed. A hollow, wheezing sound. “Check the nursery, my dear. If the smoke hasn't reached it yet.”
I didn't wait to hear the rest. I ran through the front double doors right behind Marco.
The grand marble foyer was filled with a blinding haze of gray smoke. The fire alarms were screaming—shrill, piercing pulses that echoed off the high ceilings.
“LEO!” Marco shouted, his voice cracking as he reached the landing of the grand staircase. He stumbled, clutching his chest with his left hand.
I caught him by the elbow. His skin was clammy, cold sweat pouring down his face despite the heat.
“Marco, stop! Let David go up!” I urged.
“NO!” he bellowed, tearing himself away. “HE’S MY BOY!”
We burst into the east corridor. The air here was scalding. The door to Dominic’s study was a wall of roaring orange flames, the century-old oak doorframe crumbling under the heat. Just ten feet down the hall was Leo’s bedroom door.
Marco threw himself against the white wood.
“Leo! It’s Daddy! Unlock the door!”
Silence.
Nothing but the crackle of burning timbers and the wail of the alarms.
David slammed his boot against the deadbolt. The wood splintered with a violent crack, and the door swung open.
The room was empty. The bed was neatly made.
“He’s gone,” Marco whispered, his knees buckling beneath him. “He took him. Victor took him.”
“No,” I shouted over the noise. “Look!”
Across the bedroom, the white wooden door of the wardrobe cabinet was cracked open three inches. Sticking out from the bottom was the corner of a red fleece blanket.
I dropped my bag, ran across the room, and pulled the cabinet doors open.
Curled into a tiny ball between heavy winter coats was eight-year-old Leo. He was clutching a pair of plastic noise-canceling headphones over his ears, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, crying silently into his knees.
“Leo,” I cried, pulling him gently out into the room.
The boy opened his eyes, saw Marco, and let out a piercing shriek of relief.
“DADDY!”
Marco collapsed onto the floor, pulling his son into his arms with such ferocious desperation that he knocked over a lamp. He buried his face in Leo’s small shoulder, his entire body convulsing with ragged sobs.
“I got you, buddy,” Marco wept, kissing the boy’s hair over and over. “Daddy’s got you. You’re safe. You’re safe.”
Leo was crying into Marco’s neck, his small hands clutching the collar of Marco’s shirt. “I kept the drawing, Daddy. I hid it in my sock so the bad man wouldn't take it.”
Suddenly, the floor beneath us groaned.
A massive beam from the adjoining study collapsed with a thundering crash, sending a wave of sparks and black smoke rolling through the shared wall.
“We have to move!” David barked, grabbing Leo’s blanket and throwing it over the boy’s head. “The roof over the study is coming down!”
We rushed down the back servants' stairs, bypassing the smoke-filled grand foyer, and burst out into the cold courtyard behind the estate.
The rain was pouring down in sheets, washing the soot from our faces.
Rose and Sofia were waiting beside the idling SUV. When Sofia saw Leo in Marco’s arms, she fell to her knees in the wet gravel, wrapping her arms around both of them.
“My baby,” Rose wept, touching Leo’s face. “Thank God. Thank God.”
Marco handed Leo to Sofia. “Take him into the car. Turn the heat on.”
He turned around.
The east wing was fully engulfed now, sirens wailing in the distance as local fire engines approached the long private drive.
Standing twenty yards away near the stone fountain was Samuel Bellini. He hadn't run toward the fire. Instead, he was standing beside a cast-iron drainage grate, using the hook of his ebony cane to wedge open a heavy stone paver.
Marco walked toward his uncle, his breathing shallow, his face dark as thunder.
“What are you doing?” Marco asked.
Samuel grunted, heaving the stone paver aside with a scrape of wet rock. Beneath it lay a rusted, water-sealed steel cylinder, approximately the size of an ammunition box.
“Dominic knew Victor would burn the house down if he ever got desperate,” Samuel said, pulling the steel box from the mud. “The fireplace inside the study was a decoy. Dominic moved the real vault out here eighteen years ago, two days before he died.”
Samuel wiped the wet silt from the lid and inserted the long iron key he had carried in his coat.
With a heavy, mechanical click, the lock gave way.
Inside the box lay three items:
A leather-bound journal.
A microcassette recorder.
And an unopened, wax-sealed medical envelope addressed in Dominic’s elegant cursive:
*FOR MY SON MARCO — TO BE OPENED ONLY IF MY HEART DIES BEFORE MY BODY.*
Marco reached into the box. His hands were covered in soot and blood, but his fingers were steady as he broke the red wax seal.
Inside was a single folded sheet of paper.
I leaned over his shoulder, holding a flashlight from my kit.
It was an autopsy authorization form, signed by Dominic himself two weeks before his death.
And across the bottom, written in red ink, was a note that chilled me to the marrow:
*“Victor did not act alone. Dr. Mercer holds the key to the pulse.”*
I froze.
My breath caught in my throat.
“Laura?” Marco looked at me, seeing the terror on my face. “What is it?”
“Dr. Mercer,” I whispered, my heart slamming against my ribs. “Dr. Mercer isn't your father’s old doctor, Marco.”
Marco stared at me. “What are you talking about?”
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“Dr. Arthur Mercer is the chief of cardiac surgery at Northwestern,” I said, my voice trembling in the freezing rain. “He’s the doctor who implanted your defibrillator six months ago.”
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