Chapter 7 - THE GHOST IN THE HALLWAY
The gravelly voice echoed through the pitch-black mansion like thunder.
Uncle Vincent.
He hadn't been seen in Chicago for twenty years, banished by Lorenzo after a bloody dispute over the family’s legitimate fronts. Now, he was standing in the hallway, and the power was completely dead.
I crouched behind the heavy oak desk, my heart hammering against my ribs so violently I thought it might crack them.
Luca’s grip on my arm was tight, grounding me.
He didn’t panic.
He reached down to his ankle and pulled a sleek, suppressed pistol from a holster I didn’t even know he was wearing.
The metallic click of the safety coming off was the only sound in the room.
“Where’s my mother?” Luca yelled into the dark.
A low chuckle vibrated from the hallway.
“Teresa is resting comfortably in the parlor,” Vincent called back. “My men are keeping her company. Nobody’s going to hurt her, Luca. We’re family, after all.”
“You lost the right to call her family twenty years ago,” Luca replied, his voice dangerously calm.
“Things change, kid,” Vincent said. I could hear his footsteps inching closer to the study doors. “Your father got soft. He wanted to turn everything legal. Run construction companies and garbage routes like a civilian. I’m here to correct his mistakes.”
“You’re here for a ghost, Vincent,” Luca said. “You forged a will. But it won’t hold up.”
“It’ll hold up just fine when the family lawyer confirms it tomorrow morning,” Vincent laughed. “Especially since Michael is ready to swear under oath that his father signed it.”
“Michael is a pawn,” Luca spat. “You’re using him.”
“Michael is greedy and stupid,” Vincent agreed casually. “But he was useful. He kept you out of the city. He intercepted those pathetic letters your father kept trying to send you. And he brought Vanessa into the fold. She was quite the actress, wasn't she?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, terrified by how casually he admitted to destroying their lives.
“What do you want, Vincent?” Luca demanded.
“I want the keys to the offshore accounts, Luca. The two million your father liquidated before he died. I know he hid the routing numbers in this study. Give them to me, and you can take Teresa and your little maid back to New York unharmed.”
Luca looked down at me in the dark.
His eyes were completely adjusted now.
He leaned in so closely I could feel his breath against my ear.
“Hannah,” he whispered, barely making a sound. “The false bottom in the wooden box. The one Michael smashed.”
I nodded slowly, terrified.
“Was there anything else in there? Anything hidden in the splinters?”
I tried to think. My mind was racing. When Michael smashed the box, the blue velvet bag fell out. But I remembered seeing something else. A small slip of paper, wedged tight in the corner of the wood.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “A tiny piece of yellow paper. It didn’t fall out. It’s still in the dining room.”
Luca’s eyes flashed.
That was it. The routing numbers.
“I don’t have the numbers, Vincent,” Luca called out loudly, standing up slightly to draw attention away from me. “Dad took them to his grave.”
“Don’t lie to me, kid,” Vincent growled. The footsteps stopped right outside the closed double doors. “I’ll give you to the count of three to open this door and hand over the numbers. Or I let my men deal with Teresa.”
Luca froze.
They had his mother.
He looked at the suppressed pistol in his hand. He had enough bullets for Vincent, but not for the men holding Teresa in the parlor.
“One,” Vincent called out.
Luca looked at me.
“Hannah,” he whispered. “Behind you. The window.”
I looked back. The heavy curtains hid the tall window overlooking the garden.
“Sneak out,” Luca ordered softly. “Run around to the dining room window. Get that slip of paper. If I die tonight, use those numbers to pay for your mother’s care and get Teresa out of Chicago.”
“No,” I choked out. “I’m not leaving you.”
“Two,” Vincent yelled.
“Go,” Luca ordered, pushing me toward the curtains.
I didn’t have a choice. I slipped behind the heavy velvet drapes, unlatched the old window, and slid out into the freezing rain.
The storm soaked me instantly. My apron clung to my legs as I sprinted through the mud, keeping low against the brick wall of the mansion.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the rose bushes.
I reached the dining room window.
It was locked.
Panic surged through me. I wiped the rain from my eyes, looking around desperately. I grabbed a heavy stone from the garden path.
Wrapping my apron around my fist, I smashed the stone against the glass panel near the latch.
It shattered.
I reached in, cutting my forearm on the jagged edge, and unlocked the window.
I tumbled inside, landing hard on the marble floor.
The dining room was pitch black.
I crawled toward the table, feeling the broken china and spilled wine under my hands.
My fingers brushed against the splintered remains of the wooden box.
I felt along the cracked edges.
Come on. Come on.
There.
A tiny, folded square of yellow paper, wedged perfectly in the corner.
I pulled it out just as a gunshot echoed from the other side of the house.
I screamed.
“Luca!”
I scrambled to my feet, clutching the paper, ready to run toward the study.
But suddenly, a hand grabbed my hair from behind, yanking my head back violently.
May you like
A cold steel blade pressed against my throat.
“Well, well,” Michael’s voice whispered in my ear. “Look what the rat found.”
