Chapter 7 - THE GOLD NECKLACE
The sound of shattering glass and splintering wood echoed through the mansion, immediately followed by the frantic shouts of Anthony’s security detail in the courtyard.
The library windows vibrated from the concussive force of the gunfire outside.
Anthony didn’t flinch. In a fraction of a second, the grieving husband vanished, replaced entirely by the ruthless syndicate boss who had controlled Chicago’s underworld for a decade. He drew his heavy black pistol from his waistband, chambering a round with a sharp, metallic clack.
“Grace!” Anthony roared over the chaos. “Take Sophie! The kitchen passage!”
I didn’t need to be told twice. I grabbed Sophie’s hand so hard she whimpered, and dragged her toward the heavy oak doors of the library.
“You’re not going anywhere!” Isabella screamed, lunging across the desk to grab my apron strings.
Before her fingers could even brush the white fabric, Anthony grabbed her by the hair, throwing her violently to the floor. He aimed his pistol squarely at her chest, his eyes burning with lethal intent.
“Move, Grace!” Anthony ordered. “Get her into the tunnels! Don’t stop until you hit the street!”
I bolted out of the library, pulling Sophie down the grand hallway.
The mansion was in complete chaos. The beautiful crystal vases Isabella had ordered for the engagement party were exploding into dust as stray bullets pierced the front windows. Men in dark suits—Anthony’s loyal guards—were rushing past us, shouting orders and returning fire toward the heavily armored SUVs breaching the front gate.
“Miss Grace, I’m scared!” Sophie cried, stumbling over the hem of her birthday dress.
“I’ve got you, sweetheart, I’ve got you,” I panted, scooping the nine-year-old up into my arms. She was heavy, but adrenaline pumped through my veins, giving me strength I didn't know I had.
We burst through the swinging doors into the massive, industrial kitchen.
This was my domain. I knew every inch of this room. I rushed toward the walk-in pantry, where a heavy iron grate in the floor led to the old prohibition-era bootlegging tunnels that connected the basement to the city storm drains. Anthony had shown it to me years ago in case of an emergency.
I set Sophie down and dropped to my knees, frantically pulling at the heavy iron ring to lift the grate.
“Hurry, Miss Grace!” Sophie sobbed, covering her ears as another volley of gunfire echoed upstairs.
“Almost there, honey,” I grunted, the heavy iron finally groaning as it swung open, revealing the dark, concrete stairs leading into the earth.
“Go, Sophie. Get down there and wait for me,” I commanded.
But as Sophie took a step toward the hole, a shadow fell over us.
“I told you,” a breathless, venomous voice hissed from the doorway. “You aren't going anywhere.”
I spun around.
Isabella stood in the kitchen entrance. Her red dress was torn, her hair was a wild, tangled mess, and there was a streak of blood across her cheek where she had hit the floor. Anthony must have left her alive to deal with the immediate threat outside, assuming she was unarmed and cornered.
He was wrong.
Isabella slowly walked over to the stainless steel prep counter. Lying exactly where she had dropped it an hour ago was the massive, serrated silver cake knife.
She picked it up. The polished metal gleamed under the harsh fluorescent kitchen lights.
“The Russians outside don't care about me,” Isabella panted, gripping the handle so tightly her knuckles turned white. “They just want Anthony’s territory. They want him dead. But me? I want what I’m owed.”
I shoved Sophie behind me, putting my body completely between the little girl and her deranged aunt.
“It’s over, Isabella,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady. “You’ve lost. Anthony will kill you if you touch us.”
“Anthony is going to die tonight!” Isabella screamed, her eyes wide and manic. “My sister stole my childhood! She stole the family that should have been mine! And then she died, leaving behind this… this spoiled little brat who gets to live like a princess!”
Isabella took a slow, calculated step toward us, raising the serrated knife.
“You want to play mother, Grace?” Isabella sneered. “You want to be the hero? Fine. I’ll cut you open first, and then I’ll finish what I started with Elena’s little mistake.”
I desperately scanned the kitchen. I was trapped between the open grate and the marble island. I had no weapons, no gun, no training. I was a forty-six-year-old cook.
But I was a cook in my own kitchen.
As Isabella lunged forward, swinging the heavy silver blade toward my chest, I didn't try to block it with my hands.
Instead, I grabbed the heavy, cast-iron skillet sitting on the stove to my left.
I swung it with every ounce of strength I had.
CLANG!
The iron skillet collided violently with the silver cake knife in mid-air. The impact sent a shockwave up my arm, but it did exactly what I needed it to do. The knife deflected downward, slicing through the air inches from my stomach.
But Isabella was fast. Fueled by years of rage and adrenaline, she immediately spun around, using the momentum of the deflected strike to backhand me across the face with her free hand.
I stumbled backward, dropping the skillet, my head spinning as the taste of copper filled my mouth.
I fell hard against the marble island, gasping for breath.
Isabella stood over me, raising the knife high above her head with both hands.
“Die, you pathetic servant!” she screamed.
She brought the blade down.
I threw my arms up to protect my face, squeezing my eyes shut.
But the blade didn't hit my flesh.
Instead, I felt a violent, heavy tug on my neck. The sharp tip of the serrated knife caught perfectly on the thick silver chain I wore around my neck—the heavy, locked silver locket that Elena had given me five years ago on her deathbed.
With a sickening SNAP, the knife sliced clean through the silver hinge of the locket, shattering the metal casing before burying itself an inch into the wooden cutting board next to my head.
Isabella tried to yank the knife free, but the serrated edge was deeply wedged into the thick maple wood.
Before she could pull it loose, the kitchen doors burst open.
“Grace! Get down!” Anthony roared.
I threw myself over Sophie, covering her with my body.
Three deafening gunshots shattered the air.
Isabella screamed, stumbling backward, dropping the handle of the stuck knife. She clutched her shoulder, collapsing against the refrigerator, sliding down the stainless steel doors until she hit the tile floor, weeping and bleeding.
Anthony stood in the doorway, his pistol raised, smoke curling from the barrel. Behind him, the mansion was suddenly quiet. The threat outside had been neutralized by his men.
The boss had won.
Anthony holstered his weapon and rushed over to us, dropping to his knees and pulling both me and Sophie into a crushing hug.
“Are you hurt?” he demanded, his hands frantically checking Sophie, then me. “Did she cut you, Grace?”
“No, no, I’m okay,” I gasped, sitting up. “She missed. She hit the cutting board.”
I looked over at the heavy oak block. The cake knife was still buried deep in the wood.
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But beneath it, scattered across the marble counter, were the shattered pieces of the silver locket Elena had given me.
And resting among the broken silver fragments was a tightly rolled, yellowed piece of paper that had been hidden inside the locket for five years.
