Chapter 5 - THE GREENHOUSE
The smell of burning wood and accelerating gasoline seeped through the cracks of the master suite windows.
Down in the garden, Martha’s beloved cottage was entirely engulfed in roaring orange flames. The fire illuminated the ancient oak trees, casting demonic, twisting shadows across the manicured lawns.
“My home,” Martha wept, pressing her wrinkled hands against the glass. “My husband’s photographs… everything is gone.”
I gripped the phone tightly, Bianca’s lethal threat still echoing in my ear.
“I’m not giving you the map, Bianca,” I said, trying to keep the terror out of my voice. “The police will see the fire. They’ll be here in minutes.”
Bianca laughed, a sharp, cruel sound over the phone line. “The police in this district have been on Dante Marino’s payroll for twenty years, you stupid girl. Nobody is coming to save you. Bring the map to the greenhouse. Now.”
The line went dead.
Answer One. Bianca wasn’t trapped. She had manipulated Lorenzo, poisoned his drink, and now had full control of the estate, backed by corrupt local police.
I turned away from the window. Aunt Eleanor was pacing frantically, wringing her hands. “We have to wake Lorenzo. He has an emergency bunker under the wine cellar. If we can get him down there—”
“We don’t have time,” I interrupted, folding the yellowed parchment map and slipping it deep into my apron pocket. “She’s going to burn the other cottages. There are five elderly people asleep in those houses. They won’t be able to get out.”
“Claire, no!” Aunt Eleanor grabbed my arm. “You’re a maid! You can’t negotiate with these people! Dante Marino will kill you without a second thought!”
“I have to try,” I said firmly.
I knelt down in front of little Leo. He was staring at the flames out the window, his jaw set in a brave, determined line. He looked so much like his father in that moment it broke my heart.
“Leo, listen to me very carefully,” I whispered, holding his small shoulders. “I need you to stay here with Aunt Eleanor and Martha. Lock the door behind me and do not open it for anyone except your father. Do you understand?”
Leo nodded solemnly. “Are you going to give the bad lady the map?”
“I’m going to do whatever it takes to keep this family safe,” I promised him.
I stood up, unlocked the heavy deadbolt, and slipped out into the darkened hallway.
The sprawling Bellini mansion was eerily silent. The private security detail Lorenzo paid handsomely was nowhere to be seen—likely bought off or incapacitated by Bianca’s accomplices. I crept down the grand staircase, my soft-soled shoes making no sound against the marble.
I peaked into the dining room.
Lorenzo was slumped over the mahogany table, completely unconscious. The sedative Bianca had slipped into his champagne had knocked out a man who survived three assassination attempts.
I wanted to run to him, to try to wake him, but a loud crash from outside jolted me. The roof of Martha’s cottage caved in.
I ran to the kitchen, grabbed a heavy iron meat tenderizer from the butcher block—the only weapon I could find—and slipped out the servants’ door into the cool night air.
The heat from the burning cottage washed over my face. I stayed in the shadows of the tall hedges, moving swiftly toward the abandoned stone greenhouse at the edge of the property.
The greenhouse was a massive, Victorian-style glass and iron structure. It hadn’t been used in a decade. The glass panes were opaque with dirt, and wild, overgrown vines suffocated the walls.
I pushed the heavy iron door open. It creaked loudly, announcing my arrival.
Inside, the air was damp and smelled of decaying earth. Moonlight filtered through the dirty glass, casting eerie shadows over empty planters and rusted gardening tools.
“You’re late.”
I spun around.
Bianca stepped out from behind a massive, dead oak planter. She was no longer holding the gasoline canister. She was holding a suppressed 9mm handgun, aimed directly at my chest.
“Give me the map, Claire,” Bianca demanded, extending her free hand.
I gripped the iron meat tenderizer behind my back. “Let the retirees out of the cottages first. Then you get the map.”
“You are in no position to negotiate with me!” Bianca snapped, taking a step closer. “Dante’s men are breaching the front gates right now. Hand over the map to the offshore deeds, or I shoot you in the stomach and take it off your bleeding body.”
Reversal.
“Why do you even want the deeds, Bianca?” I asked, stalling for time, desperately hoping the police or Lorenzo would wake up. “You’re marrying a billionaire. You were going to have everything.”
Bianca’s face twisted with a sudden, vicious rage.
“I don’t want his dirty money!” Bianca shouted, her composure finally cracking. “I want what his father stole from my family!”
I froze. “What?”
“My real name isn’t Bianca Bellini,” she spat, tears of pure hatred filling her eyes. “My name is Bianca Moretti. Lorenzo’s father slaughtered my parents twenty-five years ago in a turf war. Dante Marino took me in. He raised me. He promised me that if I infiltrated this family and found the deeds, he would give me the revenge I deserve!”
Answer One. Bianca wasn’t just a random mole. She was a weapon forged from a decades-old blood feud, raised by Dante Marino for this exact purpose.
Open Two. If Bianca was a Moretti, why did Lorenzo’s mother hide a photo of Bianca as a baby in the lockbox alongside Dante’s watch? I had seen the edge of a photograph under the watch before Lorenzo closed the box.
“Bianca, listen to me,” I said, taking a cautious step forward. “Dante Marino is using you. Lorenzo’s mother—”
“Shut up and give me the map!” Bianca screamed, cocking the gun.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic scraping sound echoed from the far corner of the greenhouse.
Bianca whipped her gun toward the noise.
Beneath a pile of dead vines and rusted pots, the stone floor was shifting. A heavy stone slab was being pushed upward from underneath.
I backed away in terror as the stone slab crashed to the side, revealing a dark, square tunnel leading underground.
A pair of hands gripped the edge of the hole.
Someone was climbing out of the hidden vault.
But it wasn’t Dante Marino. And it wasn’t a security guard.
Pulling himself out of the dirt and darkness, covered in dust and breathing heavily, was Lorenzo Bellini.
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He held a massive, black shotgun in his hands.
“You drugged my champagne, Bianca,” Lorenzo growled, racking the shotgun with a deafening CHCK-CHCK. “But you forgot that a mafia boss never drinks from a glass he didn’t pour himself.”
