THE BUTTERFLY AND THE GHOST AT ST. CATHERINE’S

The air in the cellar tasted of brick dust and burnt cordite as Marco rushed down the stairs, his tactical flashlight cutting through the gloom.

“Boss, the front gate is completely gone!” Marco reported, his voice tight with adrenaline. “Three armored black SUVs breached the perimeter. They’re Bellini loyalists, but they’re not trying to negotiate—they’re planting explosives along the west wing!”

Gabriel didn’t hesitate. He holstered his gun and grabbed a heavy tactical flashlight from the table.

“They want to bury the greenhouse before we can reach it,” Gabriel said grimly. He looked at Vincent Bellini, who was still tied to the chair, coughing in the swirling dust. “Watch him. If he moves, put a bullet in his knee.”

“Got it, Boss,” Marco grunted.

Gabriel grabbed my arm. “Come on, Claire. We’re going through the wine cellar tunnels.”

“The tunnels?” I asked, stumbling slightly as he pulled me past the racks of wine.

“My grandfather built an underground transit system connecting the main cellar directly to the botanical greenhouse during the Prohibition era,” Gabriel explained rapidly, pushing aside a heavy wooden wine rack to reveal a concealed steel door in the stone wall.

He punched a numeric code into the keypad beside the door. It clicked open with a heavy pneumatic hiss.

We slipped inside, and Gabriel slammed the door shut behind us, sealing out the echoing sounds of the distant gunfight.

The tunnel was narrow, damp, and smelled of wet earth. The beam of Gabriel’s flashlight danced across rough stone walls dripping with condensation.

“Mr. Romano,” I gasped, trying to keep up with his long, urgent strides. “If the Bellinis are blowing up the west wing, how do we know the greenhouse hasn’t already been destroyed?”

“Because the greenhouse is a quarter-mile away from the main house, isolated on the north lawn,” Gabriel said, his voice echoing in the enclosed space. “They’re trying to draw my security team away from the grounds while a specialized extraction unit digs up the safe.”

My blood ran cold.

“Extraction unit?”

“Vincent’s personal clean-up crew,” Gabriel gritted his teeth. “They’ve been looking for whatever my wife hid in that safe for three years. If they get to it before we do, everything Catherine died for is gone.”

We broke into a run, our footsteps splashing in the shallow puddles along the brick floor of the tunnel.

After five minutes of agonizing rushing, the tunnel sloped upward, ending at a heavy iron ladder bolted against a circular concrete hatch.

Gabriel climbed up first, pushing against the heavy metal lid.

It scraped against loose gravel before swinging open with a loud groan.

Cool, damp night air rushed in, mixing sharply with the sweet scent of blooming white orchids and wet soil.

We climbed out into the greenhouse.

The massive glass structure was bathed in the pale, eerie glow of the moonlight. Rows of towering tropical plants and hanging ferns cast long, twisting shadows across the stone pathways.

And right in the center of the room, standing beside the large concrete planter filled with white roses, were two men in dark tactical gear.

They were holding a heavy-duty hydraulic jackhammer, preparing to punch a hole straight through the concrete floor.

“Freeze!” Gabriel bellowed, drawing his weapon and stepping out from the hatch.

The two mercenaries spun around instantly, their training kicking in with terrifying speed.

Instead of raising their rifles at Gabriel, one of them lunged forward, grabbing a heavy canister sitting by the door.

Propane.

“Drop the weapon, Romano, or I light this tank and turn this entire glass box into a furnace!” the mercenary shouted, his lighter flicking open with a sharp clack.

Gabriel froze, the barrel of his gun lowering an inch.

“Don't do it,” Gabriel warned, a lethal edge in his voice. “You blow this place, you die with it.”

“We die for the family,” the mercenary sneered, bringing the flame closer to the escaping valve of the propane tank.

I looked around frantically in the dim light.

My eyes landed on a heavy, automated overhead watering pipe directly above the mercenaries' heads, controlled by a manual brass valve on the wall beside me.

Without thinking, I lunged toward the wall.

“Hey!” the second mercenary yelled, pivoting his assault rifle toward me.

Crack.

A bullet shattered the glass window inches from my face, raining sharp shards over my shoulders.

I didn't stop. I threw all my weight onto the brass valve, wrenching it open as hard as I could.

With a deafening roar, a massive torrent of high-pressure water blasted from the overhead pipes, soaking the mercenaries from head to toe in a freezing, blinding waterfall.

The open flame of the lighter was instantly drowned out in a hiss of escaping gas and water.

Before the dazed mercenaries could recover, Gabriel closed the distance between them with terrifying speed.

He pistol-whipped the first man across the face, sending him crashing into the glass display tables, and swept the second man’s legs out from under him, driving his knee into the mercenary’s chest until he passed out.

It was over in less than ten seconds.

Gabriel stood panting in the artificial rain, his suit soaked through, his dark eyes fixed on the concrete floor where the hydraulic jackhammer had already chipped away a small square of stone.

“Claire,” Gabriel breathed, wiping water from his eyes. “Are you alright?”

“I’m okay,” I gasped, clutching my chest as my knees shook.

Gabriel dropped to his knees beside the chipped concrete. He used the butt of his gun to pry away the remaining loose chunks of stone.

Beneath the floor was a heavy, flush-mounted iron safe with a rusted combination dial.

“The second key,” Gabriel realized, remembering Catherine’s note.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver butterfly hair clip.

He examined the intricate metal clasp on the back of the wings.

“It’s not just a hair clip,” Gabriel whispered.

With a sharp twist, the delicate silver butterfly split apart into two distinct pieces. Hidden inside the hollow pin wasn't thread—it was a miniature, old-fashioned skeleton key.

Gabriel inserted the key into the center of the safe’s dial.

It turned with a smooth, satisfying click.

He pulled the heavy iron door open.

Inside sat a single, faded leather-bound journal and a sealed manila envelope.

Gabriel pulled them out into the pale moonlight.

He opened the journal. The first page was written in his late wife’s handwriting.

As Gabriel read the first two sentences, his face went completely blank, and the journal slipped from his fingers onto the wet stone floor.

“No,” Gabriel whispered, his voice cracking with a devastation I had never heard before. “No… that’s impossible.”