Chapter 5 - THE SERVANT'S PASSAGE
The heavy iron fire poker connected with the side of the mercenary’s helmet with a sickening crack.
The sheer force of the blow jarred my arms up to the shoulders. The massive man stumbled sideways, his assault rifle discharging a wild burst of bullets into the ceiling, raining plaster down on us in the dark.
Dante didn’t hesitate. He spun around, grabbing the mercenary by the tactical vest, and threw him forcefully into the heavy mahogany desk.
“Get in the tunnel!” Dante roared at me.
I dropped the poker, my hands shaking violently, and scrambled into the soot-covered fireplace. Dante followed a second later, grabbing the iron lever on the inside and pulling the heavy stone wall shut just as more flashlight beams swept into the library.
The false back clicked into place, sealing us in total darkness.
The silence was abrupt and jarring, broken only by the sound of our ragged breathing.
“Emily,” Dante’s voice was close in the dark.
I felt his large, warm hand find my shoulder.
“I’m okay,” I gasped, though my knees felt like water.
“You saved my life,” he said softly, the weight of his gratitude heavy in the cramped space.
“Daddy?” Noah’s small, terrified voice echoed slightly ahead of us.
“I’m right here, buddy,” Dante promised.
Marco switched on a small penlight. The beam illuminated a narrow, dirt-floored tunnel reinforced with ancient wooden beams. It smelled of mildew and centuries of stagnant air.
“How far does this go, Emily?” Marco asked, keeping his voice low.
“About half a mile,” I answered, wiping soot from my forehead. “It leads directly up into the floorboards of the old boathouse on the lake. Nobody uses it. It’s completely abandoned.”
“Then that’s where we go,” Dante said. “Marco, take point.”
We moved quickly but carefully. The ceiling was low, forcing Dante and Marco to crouch. I held Noah’s hand tightly, feeling the little boy’s pulse racing through his small fingers.
As we walked deeper into the earth, the sounds of the mansion being torn apart above us faded into a dull, distant thudding.
Then, Marco suddenly stopped.
He raised a hand in the penlight’s beam.
“Boss,” Marco whispered. “Someone is up ahead.”
My heart stopped. Had the Russians found the other entrance?
Marco slowly drew his weapon, aiming the small circle of light down the tunnel.
Leaning against a wooden support beam, clutching his stomach, was Adrian.
His expensive suit was ruined, soaked in dark, wet blood.
“Adrian,” Dante said, stepping past Marco.
Adrian looked up, his face ashen, sweating profusely. He was holding his silver handgun loosely by his side.
“I didn’t make it to the panic room,” Adrian wheezed, a bloody cough wracking his chest. “The Russians... they were already in the hallway. I tried to tell them I had the transfer papers... they didn’t care. They just shot me.”
He had tried to sell his own brother out, and his buyers had betrayed him.
Dante looked down at the brother who had plotted his murder. His face was unreadable—a mix of profound sorrow and cold mafia justice.
“Where is Camilla?” Dante asked.
Adrian laughed weakly. “She ran. When the shooting started, she shoved me into the line of fire and bolted toward the east wing.”
Adrian’s legs gave out. He slid down the wooden beam into the dirt.
“I’m dying, Dante,” Adrian whispered, terror finally breaking through his arrogance. “Please. Don’t leave me here in the dark.”
Dante knelt beside him. He didn’t offer comfort, but he didn’t raise a weapon either.
“You murdered my wife, Adrian,” Dante said, his voice void of emotion. “You tried to steal my son’s future. You brought mercenaries into my home. This is the end you earned.”
Adrian’s breathing grew shallow. He reached a bloody, trembling hand into his inside jacket pocket.
He pulled out a folded manila envelope.
“It’s not just the money, Dante,” Adrian choked out, pushing the envelope into Dante’s hand. “Look what Camilla is hiding. She played both of us.”
Dante frowned. He opened the envelope under the beam of Marco’s penlight.
Inside were medical documents from a private clinic in Manhattan.
Dante read the top page.
“She’s pregnant,” Dante said, confusion crossing his face. “She told me she was on birth control.”
“She is,” Adrian wheezed, a cruel, final smile touching his lips. “But she’s fourteen weeks along, Dante. You’ve only been sleeping with her for eight weeks. And I’ve been sterile since I was twenty-five.”
Dante stared at the paper.
“Then whose baby is it?” Dante asked.
Adrian closed his eyes, his head resting back against the dirt wall.
“It belongs to Volkov,” Adrian whispered. “The head of the Russian syndicate. She wasn’t just going to steal Noah’s trust fund, Dante. She was planting a Russian heir inside the Marino family.”
Adrian took one final, rattling breath, and his chest stopped moving.
He was gone.
I stared at the dead man in the dirt, the sheer scale of the betrayal making my head spin. Camilla hadn't just been a gold digger. She was a Trojan horse for a rival mafia empire.
“Boss,” Marco said urgently. “We can’t stay here. If Volkov is behind this, he’s not going to stop until he finds you.”
Dante stood up slowly. He folded the medical papers and put them in his pocket. The shock on his face had been replaced by a terrifying, cold resolve.
“Let’s go to the boathouse,” Dante said.
We pushed forward, leaving Adrian’s body in the dark.
After ten minutes of walking, the air grew colder and smelled sharply of lake water and gasoline.
We reached a heavy wooden trapdoor set into the ceiling.
Marco pushed it open. We climbed up into the boathouse.
It was a massive, wooden structure built over the dark waters of Lake George. A sleek, high-performance speedboat was tied to the interior dock.
“Get in the boat,” Dante ordered me, lifting Noah over the railing and into the passenger seat.
I climbed in beside him, my hands shaking as I searched the dashboard for the keys.
“Where are the keys?” I panicked.
Suddenly, the massive wooden doors of the boathouse slid open on their iron tracks.
Blinding floodlights poured into the structure, illuminating the water and the boat.
Standing on the dock, surrounded by six mercenaries with assault rifles, was a tall, scarred man in a heavy wool overcoat.
Volkov.
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And standing right beside him, completely unharmed and holding the keys to the speedboat, was Camilla.
“Hello, Dante,” Camilla smiled, her voice echoing over the water. “I told you... I always prepare for the future.”
