Chapter 6 - THE GREENHOUSE MAP
The gunshot was deafening in the enclosed library.
The heavy marble globe struck Richard’s temple, throwing his aim wildly off course.
But the bullet didn't hit the wall.
Adrian screamed, clutching his left shoulder as he collapsed to his knees. Bright red blood instantly blossomed across his crisp white dress shirt.
“Daddy!” Leo shrieked, trying to run to him.
I grabbed Leo, wrapping my arms around him and pulling him behind the heavy mahogany desk.
Richard stumbled, blood pouring from the gash on his head where the marble had hit him. He blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision, and raised the gun toward me.
But before he could fire again, the library doors shattered.
Adrian’s loyal guards, having realized Richard’s tactical team was distracted locking down the dining room, had bypassed the hallway and smashed through the terrace glass doors.
They swarmed Richard in seconds, tackling him to the floor and ripping the gun from his grip.
“Secure him!” Marco, Adrian’s head of security, roared.
The tactical team in the hallway tried to breach the library, but Marco’s men laid down a wall of suppressing fire, forcing the mercenaries to retreat into the foyer.
I scrambled out from behind the desk, pressing my hands hard against Adrian’s bleeding shoulder.
“Hold on, Mr. Moretti,” I pleaded, my hands trembling as the warm blood seeped through my fingers. “Marco, call an ambulance!”
“No ambulance,” Adrian gritted his teeth, his face pale and sweating. “The police will bring the FBI. We handle this in-house.”
He looked up at his uncle, who was pinned to the floor by two massive guards.
Despite the blood on his face, Richard started to laugh.
“You think you’ve won?” Richard spat, spitting blood onto the Persian rug. “You have the safety deposit slip, Adrian. But you don't have the evidence.”
Adrian winced in pain. “What are you talking about?”
“I knew Clara was hiding something,” Richard sneered. “The day she died, I sent my men to the bank. We drilled the locker. It was empty. The deposit slip in the rosary is a dead end. You have absolutely no physical proof that I killed Arthur or Clara. Without proof, the Commission won't let you kill me. I’m a made man.”
Adrian’s eyes darkened with despair.
Richard was right. In the mafia world, killing an elder without undeniable proof of treason would spark a civil war among the families.
“He’s lying,” Victoria said, leaning on her cane.
“I’m not,” Richard smiled. “Check the vault yourself. It’s empty. The evidence is gone.”
The room fell silent, save for the distant sound of sirens approaching the estate. Someone from the dinner party had called the police.
We had minutes before the authorities swarmed the mansion.
Then, a quiet voice spoke up.
“He is telling the truth about the vault,” Edith Bell said.
She walked slowly toward the center of the room, her faded blue dress standing out against the opulence of the library.
“But he’s wrong about the evidence.”
Richard frowned, struggling against the guards holding him down. “What do you know, old woman?”
Edith reached into her pocket.
“Clara didn't trust the bank,” Edith said softly. “She knew you had the bank manager in your pocket, Richard. So, she emptied the locker the morning she died.”
Edith pulled a small, folded piece of paper from her cardigan.
“She didn't know who else to trust. But she knew from the old ledgers that I was Arthur’s widow. She knew I wanted the truth.”
Edith unfolded the paper.
“Clara mailed this to my home address three years ago. The envelope was postmarked two hours before her car crashed.”
Adrian stared at the paper in Edith’s hands.
“What is it?” Adrian asked, his voice weak from blood loss.
Edith turned the paper around for all of us to see.
It was a child’s drawing. Crayon on construction paper.
I recognized the drawing immediately. Leo had made it years ago. It was a picture of a glass house filled with white flowers.
“It’s a drawing of the estate greenhouse,” Adrian breathed.
“Yes,” Edith nodded. “But look at the back.”
She flipped the drawing over.
On the back, written in Clara’s rushed, frantic handwriting, was a single sentence.
The ledger of Richard’s crimes, and the gun he used to shoot Arthur Bell, are buried beneath the white roses.
Richard’s face went completely dead. The arrogant smirk vanished, replaced by sheer, unadulterated panic.
“No,” Richard whispered.
“Marco,” Adrian commanded, struggling to his feet despite the massive blood loss. He swayed dangerously, but his eyes were locked on his uncle. “Take a team to the greenhouse. Dig up the white roses.”
“I’ll go,” I said quickly. “I know exactly which planter she meant. Leo and I planted those roses together.”
Adrian looked at me, his expression softening despite the pain. “Take two guards, Emily. Be careful.”
I grabbed the drawing from Edith and ran out the terrace doors, two armed guards flanking me.
We sprinted across the dark, rain-soaked lawn toward the massive glass structure of the greenhouse. The rain was coming down in sheets, soaking through my uniform in seconds.
We burst through the glass doors. The air inside was warm and smelled heavily of damp earth and jasmine.
I ran straight to the back corner, where the large concrete planter held the blooming white roses Leo loved so much.
“Dig here,” I told the guards, pointing to the center of the dirt.
They used their hands and small trowels, digging frantically through the damp soil.
About a foot down, one of the guards hit something hard.
A metal clink echoed in the quiet greenhouse.
He pulled out a heavy, rusted metal lockbox.
I used a heavy gardening sheer to smash the weak padlock. The lid popped open.
Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a snub-nosed .38 revolver. The murder weapon that killed Arthur Bell thirty-two years ago.
And beneath it was a thick, black ledger detailing every single payoff, every embezzled dollar, and every hit Richard had ordered for three decades.
We had it. The ultimate proof.
I picked up the ledger and the gun, turning to run back to the mansion.
But as I turned around, I froze.
May you like
Standing in the doorway of the greenhouse, soaking wet and shivering, was Vanessa.
And in her trembling hand, she held a small, silver derringer aimed directly at my chest.
