Chapter 4 - THE FIRE IN THE ARCHIVES
The hallway light cast a long, jagged shadow across Ella’s bedroom floor as Gabriel closed the door behind him with a soft, careful click.
He looked exhausted. The ruthless mafia boss facade had been stripped away, leaving only a grieving husband and a furious father.
He walked toward me, his dark eyes spotting the paper in my hand.
“What is that?” Gabriel asked, his voice a low rumble.
I stood up, holding out the torn medical log.
“I found it on the floor, Mr. Romano,” I said quietly. “It’s a nurse’s log from St. Catherine’s. Vanessa didn't get your wife's butterfly as a gift. She stole it from her room at two in the morning using a stolen staff badge.”
Gabriel took the paper from my fingers.
As his eyes scanned the handwritten words—and then dropped to Catherine’s final note at the bottom—his jaw tightened so hard I thought his teeth might shatter.
“She broke into her room,” Gabriel whispered, the realization hitting him with visceral impact. “While my wife was dying, that monster was terrorizing her.”
“There’s more, sir,” I added, my heart pounding against my ribs. “Look at what Mrs. Romano wrote at the bottom. About the greenhouse.”
Gabriel’s eyes dropped lower.
“If I don’t survive, find the second key in the greenhouse floor safe. Tell Gabriel the truth about the night of the fire.”
Gabriel frowned, his brow furrowing deeply.
“The greenhouse floor safe?” he repeated. “There is no floor safe in the greenhouse. My father built the structure thirty years ago for tropical orchids. It’s just glass, gravel, and concrete slabs.”
“Mrs. Romano knew what she was talking about,” I insisted gently. “She said the truth about the fire is hidden there.”
Gabriel stared at the paper for a long moment. Then, slowly, his gaze rose to meet mine.
“You know what fire she’s talking about, don’t you?” he asked.
I swallowed hard, feeling the phantom heat of a tragedy I had only ever read about in old newspaper clippings.
“The archive fire,” I murmured. “Twelve years ago. Before you and Mrs. Romano were married. The original Romano family shipping archives burned to the ground. Your uncle lost his life in that fire.”
Gabriel’s expression darkened into stone.
“My uncle Antonio died trying to save the family ledgers,” Gabriel corrected bitterly. “Or at least, that’s what the police report said. The official cause was faulty electrical wiring in the basement storage room.”
“Mrs. Romano didn’t believe it was an accident,” I said, pointing to the note. “She said the truth is buried in that safe.”
Gabriel straightened up. He folded the paper and slipped it inside his tailored jacket pocket.
“Vincent Bellini is waiting in the cellar,” Gabriel said, his voice turning lethal. “He claims he has nothing to do with Vanessa’s blackmail, that she went rogue. But if Vincent’s family had a hand in that fire twelve years ago—if they killed my uncle to cripple my father’s empire—then tonight is the end of the Bellini line.”
“Mr. Romano, let me come with you,” I blurted out.
Gabriel stopped, turning back to look at me in surprise.
“Claire, this isn’t a housekeeping matter. It’s a blood feud.”
“I know,” I said, my voice steady despite my racing pulse. “I found the log. I know where the greenhouse is. And more importantly... Mrs. Romano trusted me enough to help Ella. Let me help you finish this.”
Gabriel studied my face for a long, agonizing moment.
Finally, he nodded once.
“Stay close to me. Marco is already waiting downstairs with the keys to the greenhouse.”
We crept down the stairs, avoiding the grand foyer where the remaining dinner guests had finally been escorted out by security. The mansion was chillingly quiet.
We descended the narrow, stone stairs leading into the dark, subterranean depths of the wine cellar.
The air grew damp, smelling of ancient oak casks, dust, and raw fear.
At the far end of the cellar, past racks of vintage Bordeaux, stood a heavy iron-reinforced oak door. Two armed guards stood on either side of it, their rifles held at the ready.
“Has he spoken?” Gabriel asked the guards.
“He’s screaming, Boss,” one guard replied, unlocking the heavy deadbolt with a loud metallic clank. “Demanding we let him go before his men tear this estate apart.”
Gabriel pushed the door open.
The cellar room inside was windowless and harsh, illuminated by a single swinging overhead bulb.
Tied securely to a wooden chair in the center of the room was an elderly man in an expensive grey suit. His gray hair was disheveled, and his face was slick with sweat.
Vincent Bellini.
The ruthless patriarch of the Bellini syndicate looked up as we walked in. His arrogant eyes flickered with a brief flash of panic before he forced a sneer onto his lips.
“Gabriel,” Vincent wheezed, struggling against the thick nylon ropes binding his wrists. “Have your thugs lost their minds? Kidnapping an elder of the Commission? My men are already surrounding your gates!”
Gabriel didn’t answer right away. He walked slowly around Vincent, circling him like a predator inspecting a trapped animal.
“Your men aren’t coming, Vincent,” Gabriel said quietly. “Marco torched your downtown warehouse twenty minutes ago. They’re too busy putting out their own fires to worry about yours.”
Vincent’s sneer faltered. The color drained from his face.
“You’re bluffing,” Vincent spat.
Gabriel reached into his jacket, pulled out the medical log and Catherine’s dying note, and slapped them hard against the table in front of Vincent.
“Read that,” Gabriel commanded.
Vincent squinted down at the paper. As his eyes scanned the nurse’s log and his daughter’s name, his breathing grew shallow and ragged.
“Vanessa acted on her own,” Vincent lied quickly, shaking his head. “She was always unstable! I never ordered her to steal from your wife!”
“She broke into my dead wife’s room to steal a silver butterfly clip and a blackmail document proving you tried to extort my shipping shares,” Gabriel roared, slamming his fist onto the wooden table so hard it rattled. “You think I believe she acted alone?”
“It was about the shipping routes, Gabriel!” Vincent shouted back, desperate and cornered. “Your father stole our Mediterranean ports thirty years ago! We were just taking back what belonged to us!”
“And what about my uncle Antonio?” Gabriel demanded, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a terrifying whisper. “What about the archive fire twelve years ago? Did you steal that too, or did you burn him alive to get the ledgers?”
Vincent froze.
The color completely vanished from the old man’s cheeks. He swallowed hard, his throat dry.
“The… the fire?” Vincent stammered, his voice losing its arrogant edge. “We had nothing to do with the archive fire. That was an inside job, Gabriel! Your own family burned those records!”
Gabriel stepped back, his eyes narrowing in fierce disbelief.
“You’re lying.”
“I swear to God on my life!” Vincent cried out, thrashing against the ropes. “We wanted the ledgers, yes! We sent men to break in that night! But when our men got to the archives, the building was already locked from the inside, and someone else had already doused the files in gasoline! We didn't kill your uncle, Gabriel—someone in your own house did!”
The revelation hit the damp cellar air like a physical shockwave.
An inside job.
Someone in the Romano family had murdered Antonio and burned the archives.
Before Gabriel could demand answers, a sudden, deafening explosion shook the entire foundations of the mansion above us.
BOOM.
Dust rained down from the cellar ceiling. The overhead light flickered and died, plunging us into pitch-black darkness.
“Boss!” Marco’s panicked voice shouted from the outer hallway, accompanied by the rapid pop of gunfire. “We’re under attack! They’re blowing the gates!”
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Gabriel drew his gun in the dark, his face a mask of cold, unbreakable fury.
“They’re not here for Vincent,” Gabriel said, looking through the gloom toward the stairs. “They’re here to make sure the greenhouse safe is never opened.”
