Chapter 7 - THE DUMBWAITER
Vanessa stared at the train ticket on the floor, letting out a harsh, manic laugh that echoed down the hallway.
“A train ticket?” she sneered, gripping the meat cleaver tighter. “You were planning to run away like a coward the whole time! You play the hero, but you’re just a rat abandoning a sinking ship!”
I stood my ground, my back pressed firmly against Isabella’s bedroom door. I had bought that ticket three weeks ago. I had been saving every penny to relocate my mother to a specialized clinic in New York. The job at the Moretti house was only supposed to be temporary, just long enough to clear the debt that kept my family trapped.
“I’m not running anywhere,” I said, my voice remarkably steady despite the adrenaline flooding my veins. “Drop the knife, Vanessa. It’s over.”
“It’s not over until I have the girl!” Vanessa shrieked, raising the cleaver to strike again.
Before she could swing, Luca appeared at the top of the grand staircase. He didn't yell. He didn't issue a warning. He simply raised his weapon and fired a single shot.
The bullet shattered the heavy wooden banister two inches from Vanessa’s hand.
Vanessa screamed and dropped the cleaver, falling to her knees in pure terror. Two guards rushed up the stairs, slamming her to the floor and cuffing her hands behind her back.
Luca walked slowly down the hallway, his face an impenetrable mask of lethal calm. He looked at Vanessa, weeping on the floor, and then down at the torn fabric of my apron and the train ticket resting on the hardwood.
He bent down and picked up the ticket.
“You were leaving?” Luca asked softly, his dark eyes searching my face.
“I had to, sir,” I whispered, ashamed that he had found out this way. “My mother needs a specialized surgery. I’ve been sending my entire paycheck to the Bronx Medical Clinic to pay off her surgical debt. Tomorrow was my last day. I just didn't know how to tell you.”
Luca looked at the ticket, then at the locked door behind me. He knew I had stayed in the path of a meat cleaver to protect his child, even when I had a ticket out of this life already sitting in my pocket.
Suddenly, a loud, metallic screech echoed from inside Isabella’s bedroom.
I spun around, unlocking the door with my master key and pushing it open.
The bed was empty. The window was locked. But the small wooden door of the antique dumbwaiter in the corner of the room—a relic from the 1920s that connected to the basement laundry—was hanging wide open.
“Isabella!” Luca shouted, rushing into the room.
I dropped to my knees and peered down the dark, narrow shaft. The heavy wooden box was gone, descending deep into the bowels of the mansion.
“She must have heard the gunshot in the hallway and panicked,” I said, my heart dropping into my stomach. “She used the dumbwaiter to hide.”
“The ropes on that thing are eighty years old!” Luca said, panic finally breaking his composure. “If they snap, it’s a three-story drop to the concrete basement.”
I didn't hesitate. I leaned into the shaft and grabbed the thick, greasy pulley rope with both hands. “Isabella! Honey, it’s Emily! Are you in there?”
A tiny, trembling voice echoed up from the darkness. “Emily? The box is stuck! It won’t go down!”
“Hold on!” I yelled back.
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I pulled on the rope, trying to haul the heavy wooden box back up to the second floor, but it was jammed tight between the floors.
Then, Isabella spoke again, her voice echoing strangely. “Emily, there’s a shiny key down here. It was stuck in the wood.”
