Chapter 6 - THE TRUTH IN THE LOCKET
“I know you’re in there, Emma,” Marcus repeated, his voice low and cruel. The brass handle of the study door twisted forcefully, but the heavy deadbolt held.
I backed away, clutching the gold locket to my chest. My mind was spinning violently. Clara Whitmore was Vincent’s biological daughter. Harold had raised her, protected her, and ultimately taken the fall for union embezzlement twenty-five years ago to pay for her cancer treatments—treatments Vincent had secretly funded.
That was why Harold and Eleanor’s romance was so dangerous to Sabrina. If Harold officially joined the family, the truth about Clara’s parentage might come out, exposing decades of mafia secrets and a bloodline Vincent had desperately tried to hide.
THUD.
Marcus kicked the heavy oak door. The wood splintered around the frame.
“You have five seconds before I shoot the lock out!” Marcus yelled.
I looked frantically around the moonlit study. There was nowhere to hide. The heavy mahogany bookcases lined the walls, and the massive window behind the desk was locked tight, protected by iron security bars.
But as my eyes swept the floor, I noticed the corner of the Persian rug was slightly bunched near the fireplace.
I remembered what Eleanor had told me during my first week of cleaning. “This house was built during Prohibition, Emma. There are secrets in the floorboards that haven't seen the light of day in ninety years.”
I dropped to my knees and pulled the heavy rug back.
Set into the hardwood floor was a rusted iron ring. A trapdoor.
BANG!
A gunshot blew the lock clean off the study door. The wood splintered inward.
I hauled the iron ring upward. The trapdoor groaned, revealing a pitch-black, narrow wooden staircase leading down into the foundation of the house.
I scrambled into the dark hole just as the study door swung open. I pulled the trapdoor shut above me, the heavy wood locking into place with a dull thud, plunging me into absolute darkness.
Footsteps pounded across the floorboards directly above my head.
“Where did she go?!” Marcus roared, kicking a chair. I held my breath, terrified he would notice the rug. But after a few agonizing seconds, his heavy boots marched out of the study.
I let out a shaky breath and felt my way down the narrow stairs. The air was damp and smelled of old earth and dust.
At the bottom of the steps, my hands brushed against a cold, brick wall. I pulled a small lighter from my apron pocket—one I used to light the dining room candles—and flicked it on.
The tiny flame illuminated a narrow bootlegger’s tunnel lined with empty wine racks.
At the far end of the tunnel, a shadow moved.
I froze, holding the lighter out. “Who’s there?”
“Emma?” a raspy voice whispered.
From the darkness stepped Vincent Carbone, his arm wrapped tightly around Eleanor to support her. The mafia boss looked exhausted, his expensive suit covered in cobwebs.
“Mr. Carbone,” I breathed, rushing forward. “How did you get down here?”
“There’s a false panel in the kitchen pantry,” Vincent said, leaning his mother gently against the brick wall. Eleanor was pale, clutching her chest, but she was alive. “My father showed me these tunnels when I was a boy. Marcus doesn't know they exist.”
“He killed Sabrina,” Eleanor wept softly, burying her face in her hands. “My God, he killed her.”
Vincent’s jaw tightened. He looked at me, the tiny lighter flame reflecting in his dark eyes. “He’s going to kill all of us if we don't get out of here. But the tunnel exit leads to the boathouse, and Marcus has men patrolling the grounds.”
I looked at the powerful man, then down at my apron pocket. I pulled out the gold locket and held it out to him.
“Mr. Carbone,” I said quietly. “I found this in your study.”
Vincent stared at the locket. The tough, unbreakable mob boss suddenly looked incredibly fragile. He reached out with trembling fingers and took it.
“You saw the note,” he whispered.
“Yes, sir.” I hesitated. “Clara was your daughter. Harold’s daughter was actually yours.”
Eleanor gasped, looking up at her son in absolute shock. “Vincent? Clara... Harold’s sweet Clara was your child?”
Vincent closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his rough cheek. “It was before I met Sabrina, Ma. I fell in love with a girl from the South Side. When she got pregnant, my father found out. He threatened to kill her if she didn't disappear. He didn't want our bloodline mixed with a civilian.”
Vincent opened the locket, staring at the picture of the smiling young woman.
“Harold Whitmore was a young teacher back then,” Vincent continued, his voice cracking. “He married her to protect her. He raised Clara as his own. When Clara got sick twenty-five years ago, I secretly funded her treatments in Switzerland. But when my father found out I was funneling money out of the union, he blamed Harold to protect me. He ruined Harold’s life.”
“And Harold never told anyone,” Eleanor whispered, tears streaming down her face. “He took the blame, went bankrupt, and lived in disgrace just to protect your secret.”
“He’s a better man than I’ll ever be, Ma,” Vincent said softly. “That’s why I was so happy when you fell in love with him. It was a chance for me to finally repay him. To give him the family he deserved.”
Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the far end of the tunnel—the exit leading to the boathouse—rattled.
Someone was trying to open it from the outside.
Vincent shoved me and Eleanor behind him, pulling a small silver revolver from his ankle holster. He aimed it at the metal door.
The heavy lock clicked, and the door swung open, revealing the moonlight shining on the river.
Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the night sky, was a figure holding a flashlight.
“Put the gun down, Vincent,” a woman’s voice called out sharply.
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It wasn't one of Marcus’s men.
It was Sabrina.
