Chapter 6 - THE GHOST IN THE ARCHIVES
The rain drummed a frantic, heavy rhythm against the glass roof of the greenhouse, but inside, the air felt completely dead.
I stared down at the open page of Catherine’s leather-bound journal resting on the wet stone floor.
Gabriel remained kneeling, his hands resting limply on his knees, his broad shoulders hunched as if he had just taken a physical blow.
“Mr. Romano?” I whispered, my voice trembling. “What does it say?”
Slowly, as if moving through deep water, Gabriel reached down and picked up the journal. He turned it so the pale moonlight illuminated the cramped, hurried handwriting.
I read the lines aloud, the words sending a chilling tremor down my spine.
“Antonio didn’t die trying to save the family ledgers twelve years ago. He was murdered because he discovered the truth: the archive fire wasn’t set by a rival syndicate. It was set from the inside by someone who wanted to erase the financial records of the family’s illegal offshore accounts. And the person who locked the doors from the outside… was the man we trusted most.”
Gabriel swallowed hard, his throat dry.
“Who?” Gabriel choked out, the word tearing from his chest. “Who locked the doors?”
I read the final sentence at the bottom of the page.
“Look inside the manila envelope, Gabriel. The photograph proves Richard did it.”
Richard.
Marco’s father. Gabriel’s fiercely loyal, iron-fisted head of security, the man who had stood beside the Romano family for over thirty years.
“Marco’s father,” I breathed, the horrific realization dawning on me.
Gabriel stood up so fast he staggered slightly. He snatched the sealed manila envelope from the open safe.
He ripped the paper open and pulled out a faded, water-stained 4x6 photograph.
It was a picture taken from the high-angle security camera outside the old archives on the night of the fire twelve years ago.
The grainy image clearly showed a man in a heavy coat dousing the exterior wooden walls with a red plastic fuel canister. The hood of his coat had slipped back just enough to reveal his profile under the security light.
It was a younger Richard.
Holding a box of matches in his hand, looking directly up at the camera with a cold, unbothered smirk.
“He lied to us,” Gabriel whispered, his voice vibrating with a lethal, terrifying rage. “For twelve years, Richard sat at my father’s right hand. He swore revenge on the Bellinis for the fire. He raised Marco to be my fiercest protector. And all along, he was the traitor who murdered my uncle.”
“Mr. Romano, we need to get back to the mansion,” I urged, panic rising in my chest. “Marco is down in the cellar guarding Vincent Bellini. If Marco is Richard’s son, and Richard is the real traitor—”
Before I could finish the sentence, a sharp, deafening sound echoed from the direction of the main house.
CRACK.
A distant explosion lit up the night sky behind the tree line, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of automatic gunfire.
“They’re not attacking the Bellinis,” Gabriel realized, his eyes widening in pure horror. “The Bellini attack was a distraction. Marco didn’t stay in the cellar to guard Vincent. He stayed down there to finish him.”
Gabriel didn’t hesitate. He sprinted back toward the tunnel hatch, leaping down the iron ladder with me right behind him.
We raced through the damp, dark brick tunnel, our boots splashing violently in the puddles. The air grew hotter and thicker as we neared the main cellar entrance.
When we burst through the concealed steel door into the wine cellar, the scene awaiting us made my stomach turn.
The heavy oak door to the interrogation room was blown off its hinges.
Smoke billowed from the doorway.
Gabriel rushed inside, drawing his weapon. I followed closely behind him, clutching a heavy iron wine bottle for protection.
The room was wrecked.
Vincent Bellini’s chair lay empty on its side, the nylon ropes slashed cleanly with a knife.
And slumped against the far stone wall, with a single, executioner-style bullet hole between his eyes, was Vincent Bellini.
Standing over the body, holding a smoking semi-automatic pistol, was Marco.
He wasn’t wearing his usual composed, professional expression. His face was twisted into a cold, menacing sneer that looked terrifyingly identical to the photograph of his father we had just found in the greenhouse.
“You’re late, Boss,” Marco said smoothly, lowering his gun an inch.
Gabriel raised his weapon, the barrel locked directly onto Marco’s forehead.
“Drop the gun, Marco,” Gabriel ordered, his voice dropping to a lethal growl. “Drop it right now, or I’ll scatter your brains across this cellar floor.”
Marco didn’t drop the gun. Instead, a slow, dark smile crept across his lips.
“You can’t shoot me, Gabriel,” Marco mocked, using his first name for the first time in ten years. “If you kill me, you’ll never find out where my father took your daughter.”
Gabriel’s entire body went rigid.
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“What did you say?” Gabriel whispered, the color draining from his face.
“While you were out playing detective in the greenhouse,” Marco chuckled darkly, “my father slipped through the back gates. He has the girl. And by now, they’re halfway to the private airstrip.”
