Chapter 5 - THE BRASS KEYEveryone in the room froze.
The voice on the tape was undeniable.
Isabella.
It wasn’t a recording from twenty years ago. The audio was crisp, digital, and referenced the journal I had just exposed.
Captain Silva looked nervously at Augusto. The old industrialist looked like he had just seen a ghost.
I didn’t wait for the police to react. I lunged for the silver box on the table.
I grabbed the heavy emerald rosary.
Beneath it, pressed into the velvet lining, was a small, ornate brass key. Attached to it was a tag with a single word printed in black ink:
WINECELLAR.
My blood ran cold.
The wine cellar was the only room in my estate that was entirely soundproof and disconnected from the main security grid. My father had built it like a vault.
“He locked her in the dark,” Beatriz had said earlier, pointing at Augusto.
Suddenly, everything clicked.
“She’s here,” I breathed. “Isabella is in this house.”
“Arrest him!” Augusto suddenly screamed, his composure entirely gone. “Don’t let him move!”
Captain Silva lunged forward, grabbing my shoulder.
But Rafael was faster.
My security chief struck the captain in the chest with the butt of his radio, sending the corrupt cop crashing into a table of champagne flutes.
Chaos erupted.
“Secure the perimeter! Nobody leaves!” Rafael shouted to my men.
The standoff broke. The federal police hesitated, unsure whether to fire in a room full of Brazil’s most powerful politicians.
I didn’t stay to watch. I grabbed Ana’s arm.
“Bring Beatriz. Stay behind me,” I ordered.
I ran. I pushed past terrified guests, sprinting down the grand hallway toward the east wing.
Augusto was shouting behind me, ordering his paid cops to follow, but my security team formed a wall across the corridor, blocking their path.
We reached the heavy oak door of the wine cellar.
It was locked.
My hands shook as I slid the brass key into the old lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.
I threw the door open.
The cellar was dark, smelling of dust and aged oak. I hit the light switch.
Rows of expensive vintages stretched out before us. But at the very back of the room, behind a wrought-iron gate, a figure was huddled on the stone floor.
“Isabella!” I yelled, running toward the gate.
The figure shifted.
A woman slowly lifted her head. Her clothes were dirty, her face pale and drawn, but the eyes were exactly the same as I remembered. Exactly the same as the little girl holding Ana’s hand behind me.
Isabella Ferreira. Alive.
She let out a choked sob when she saw me.
“Mateo,” she wept, scrambling to the iron bars. She reached her hands through, gripping my shirt. “You came.”
“I’ve got you,” I said, frantically looking for a lock on the gate. “Who did this? Was it Augusto?”
Isabella’s eyes widened in terror. She looked over my shoulder.
“No, Mateo,” she whispered. “It wasn’t my father.”
I turned around.
Standing at the top of the cellar stairs, holding a silenced pistol aimed directly at Ana and Beatriz, was Rafael.
May you like
My most trusted security chief.
“Step away from the gate, Boss,” Rafael said smoothly. “Or the little girl doesn’t make it to her fifth birthday.”
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