The Watch Beneath the Floorboards

The smell of gasoline seeped under the heavy wooden door, sharp and suffocating.

Luca threw his shoulder against the thick oak. It didn’t budge. Dominic had bolted it from the outside.

“Dominic!” Luca roared, kicking the door near the hinges. The wood groaned but held firm.

“Nothing personal, Mr. Moretti,” Dominic’s muffled voice called from the hallway. “Vanessa’s father decided that since the wedding is off, it’s time to collect on the insurance. And clear out the bloodline while we’re at it.”

A soft whoosh echoed from the other side of the door, followed immediately by the crackle of hungry flames.

Orange light began to flicker beneath the door frame. Smoke curled into the attic, thick and black.

Panic seized my chest. “Luca, we’re trapped.”

I didn't call him sir. Not anymore.

Luca spun around, his flashlight cutting through the rapidly thickening smoke. “There’s a service window at the east end of the attic. Stay low, Julia. Keep under the smoke.”

I dropped to my knees, coughing as the acrid air burned my throat. I grabbed the bundle of my mother’s letters—my only proof of who I really was—and shoved them into my apron pocket.

We crawled through the maze of sheet-covered furniture. The heat behind us was building intensely.

When we reached the far wall, Luca aimed the light up.

A small, circular ventilation window sat near the peak of the roof, ten feet off the floor.

“Climb on the wardrobe,” Luca ordered, coughing into his sleeve.

I scrambled onto a dusty cedar chest, then hauled myself onto the top of the heavy wardrobe. Luca followed, his movements fast and precise.

He used his elbow to smash the thick glass of the window. Fresh, freezing night air rushed in, cutting through the smoke.

“Go,” he commanded, boosting me up by my waist.

I squeezed my shoulders through the narrow frame. Below me, the slate roof sloped dangerously toward a three-story drop into the courtyard.

“I can’t jump!” I yelled back.

“Don’t jump! Slide to the gutter and hold on!”

I pushed myself through, scraping my ribs against the broken glass frame. I slid down the freezing slate roof, my fingernails scraping desperately until the toes of my shoes slammed against the iron rain gutter.

I clung to it, suspended three stories above the stone patio.

A second later, Luca squeezed through the window, dropping heavily beside me. The moment he cleared the frame, flames licked out of the broken window into the night air.

The roof of the Moretti mansion was on fire.

Sirens began to wail in the distance.

Luca grabbed my forearm, his grip bruising but secure. “Hold on to me.”

We edged our way along the gutter toward a thick oak tree that brushed the side of the house. It took agonizing minutes, my muscles screaming in protest, before Luca reached out and grabbed a sturdy branch.

He pulled me into the tree with him. We scrambled down the rough bark, dropping the last six feet into the wet grass of the garden.

I collapsed, gasping for clean air.

Luca stood over me, chest heaving, his expensive suit covered in ash and blood from the window glass.

He looked toward the front of the estate.

Red and blue lights were flashing through the iron gates. The fire department had arrived.

But mixed in with the sirens was the sound of gunfire.

Luca pulled me to my feet. “We need to get to the gatehouse. Now.”

We ran through the shadows of the hedges.

When the gatehouse came into view, my blood ran cold.

Vanessa Bellini was standing on the porch.