Chapter 5 - FOOTSTEPS IN THE CELLAR
The dial tone hummed in my ear like a flatline.
“Clara?” Mom asked, gripping my arm. “What did she say?”
“She has his phone. Marco is already there.” I shoved the Polaroid into my pocket and grabbed my wet coat from the floor. “They’re going to kill Luca tonight and make it look like an accident. I have to get back to the estate.”
“I’m calling the police,” Mom said firmly, pulling out her own phone.
“You can’t! Half the precinct is on Don Bellini’s payroll. If you call 911, Vanessa will know we’re onto them, and she’ll execute Luca immediately.” I looked at Leo, who was clutching his teddy bear, his wide eyes watching me. “Mom, take Leo. Go to the 24-hour diner on 4th Street. Sit in a booth in the back, stay in the light, and do not leave until I come for you.”
“Clara, it’s suicide to go back there,” Mom pleaded, tears brimming in her eyes.
“If Luca dies, they’ll come for us next,” I said. “He’s the only one who can stop them.”
I kissed my mother’s cheek, squeezed Leo’s shoulder, and ran out into the pouring rain.
I didn’t wait for a taxi. I sprinted three blocks to the subway station, my mind racing faster than the train that carried me back to the wealthy suburbs.
By the time I reached the wrought-iron gates of the Moretti estate, it was nearly midnight. The engagement party had ended. The caterers' vans were gone. The massive house sat like a dark fortress against the stormy sky, only a few lights glowing on the second floor.
I couldn't go through the front gate. The guards worked for Marco.
But I was the maid. I knew the house better than anyone.
I slipped through the wet hedges, thorns tearing at my clothes, until I reached the old storm cellar doors hidden behind the greenhouse. The lock had been rusted out for years—something I’d reported to Vanessa, which she had ignored.
I pulled the heavy wooden doors open just enough to slide inside, closing them silently above me.
The cellar was pitch black and smelled of damp earth and aging wine. I crept past towering wooden casks, using the wall to guide me toward the servant stairs.
As I neared the stairs, a sliver of light caught my eye.
The door to the security office was cracked open.
I held my breath and inched closer, peering through the gap.
Vanessa was standing in the center of the room, her red engagement dress replaced by a sleek black pantsuit. She was holding a burner phone to her ear.
“Yes, Father,” Vanessa was saying, her tone impatient. “Marco’s men are sweeping the perimeter. No, the maid isn’t a problem. Marco took care of her at Oak Street.”
A chill rushed down my spine. Marco had lied to her. He didn't want to admit to Vanessa that he had failed to get the documents from me.
“The digital transfers are complete,” Vanessa continued. “As soon as Luca drinks the nightcap, his heart will stop within three minutes. The coroner is already paid off. Heart failure. Tragic, really, given his mother’s medical history.”
She paused, listening to her father.
“I know,” Vanessa said softly, a cruel smile touching her lips. “It’s exactly how I handled the old woman. A few drops in her peppermint tea every night. Luca never suspected a thing.”
My hand slapped over my own mouth to stifle the gasp.
Mrs. Moretti hadn't died of a degenerative illness. Vanessa had slowly poisoned her.
Vanessa tossed the burner phone into the trash can, turned on her heel, and walked out of the office, heading up the main stairs.
I waited five agonizing seconds before darting into the office. I dug the burner phone out of the trash. It was unlocked. I quickly forwarded the last voice recording—a saved confession to her father—to my own phone.
I turned to run to the stairs to warn Luca.
Suddenly, a massive hand clamped over my mouth from behind.
An arm like a steel vice wrapped around my waist, lifting me off my feet and dragging me back into the dark cellar.
I thrashed wildly, kicking backward, my elbow connecting with solid muscle. The attacker grunted but didn't let go.
“Stop fighting!” a gruff, strained voice hissed in my ear. “Clara, it’s me!”
The hand loosened. I spun around in the dark.
It was Paul.
But something was wrong. He was leaning heavily against a wine cask, clutching his side. Even in the dim light, I could see the dark, wet stain spreading across his white uniform shirt.
“Paul! You’re bleeding,” I whispered, rushing to support his weight.
“Marco’s men,” Paul coughed, wincing in agony. “They caught me circling back. Stabbed me in the driveway. Left me for dead.”
“We need to get you an ambulance.”
“No time,” Paul wheezed, grabbing my wrist with shocking strength. “Marco has the second floor locked down. His men are at every door. You have to get to Luca’s study before he drinks the wine.”
“How? I can’t fight armed guards!”
Paul reached into his pocket with a trembling hand and pulled out a heavy iron key ring. “Take the dumbwaiter. From the kitchen. It goes straight up to the private parlor attached to the study. It’s the only way around Marco’s men.”
He slumped to the floor, his breathing shallow. “Go, Clara. Save him.”
I grabbed the keys, my heart pounding a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I sprinted up the narrow servant stairs into the massive, dark kitchen.
The house was eerily silent.
I found the antique dumbwaiter built into the wall. It was meant for laundry and food trays, barely large enough for a person. I wedged myself inside the wooden box, pulling my knees to my chest, and yanked the heavy ropes to hoist myself up.
My muscles burned as I pulled, inch by painful inch, rising through the dark shaft.
Finally, the box jolted to a stop at the second floor.
I pushed the small wooden door open and tumbled out onto the plush carpet of the private parlor.
Through the cracked double doors leading to the study, I saw them.
Luca was sitting behind his father’s massive mahogany desk, looking exhausted, his tie loosened.
Vanessa was standing beside him. In her hand was a crystal glass filled with amber liquid.
May you like
“Here, darling,” Vanessa said, her voice smooth like velvet. “Drink this. It will help you sleep.”
Luca reached out and wrapped his fingers around the poisoned glass.
