The Swan’s Final Song

I stared at the walls of the panic room, the heavy black handgun trembling in my grip.

There were dozens of 8x10 glossy photographs pinned to the concrete. Mark getting coffee. Mark walking into his office building. Mark picking up a younger, smaller Ellie from daycare.

My husband had been surveilled for months before his death.

But why were these pictures in Vincent Moretti’s panic room?

Isabella stood beside me, her small hand gripping the fabric of my skirt. She looked up at the photos, her brow furrowed.

“That’s the man from the drawing,” Isabella said quietly.

I spun around to face her. “What drawing, Bella?”

Isabella walked over to a small metal filing cabinet in the corner of the room. She pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside was a stack of sketchbooks. Sofia’s sketchbooks.

Isabella pulled one out and opened it to a page marked with a blue ribbon.

She handed it to me.

It was a charcoal sketch. Sofia was a talented artist; she had perfectly captured a scene in a dimly lit restaurant.

In the sketch, Dominic Vesceri was sitting at a table, handing a thick manila envelope to someone.

The man taking the envelope was Mark.

The breath was punched out of my lungs.

Mark had known Dominic. My sweet, boring, city-accountant husband had been taking money from the Mafia.

“Mommy, is that Daddy?” Ellie asked, pointing a chubby finger at the drawing.

“Yes, baby,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

I flipped the page. There was another sketch. This one showed Mark standing near a loading dock, looking terrified, while men loaded wooden crates into a truck.

The trafficking ring.

Mark hadn’t just known Dominic. As a city accountant, he must have been the one doctoring the shipping manifests for the ports. Mark was the one helping Dominic smuggle people into the city undetected.

Suddenly, a loud, violent explosion rocked the estate above us.

Dust rained down from the ceiling of the panic room. Ellie screamed, burying her face in her one-eared rabbit. I pulled both girls against my chest, covering their heads.

The heavy thud of boots echoed through the ventilation shaft.

“Find the girl!” a muffled voice yelled from somewhere above. “Vesceri wants the girl!”

They weren’t here to kill Vincent. They were here to kidnap Isabella. She was the only living witness to Sofia’s murder.

I looked at the brass key in my hand. The key to the locker at Union Station.

Sofia knew Mark was involved. Sofia knew Dominic killed him to tie up loose ends. She had hidden the proof, and then Dominic had killed her, too.

And now he was coming for us.

I looked around the panic room. There was a large, heavy rug on the floor. I remembered Vincent mentioning once that the estate had old prohibition-era smuggling tunnels leading out to the lake.

I grabbed the edge of the rug and yanked it back.

A rusty metal trapdoor was set into the concrete floor.

I grabbed the handle and pulled with all my strength. The hinges shrieked in protest, but the door gave way, revealing a dark, narrow stone staircase leading deep underground.

“Girls, we have to go down there,” I said, trying to keep the panic out of my voice.

“It’s dark,” Ellie whimpered.

“I know. But we have to play a quiet game. Like a ninja. We cannot make a sound.”

Isabella nodded bravely. She took Ellie’s hand.

I grabbed a flashlight from the emergency kit on the wall, tucked the handgun into my waistband, and ushered the girls down the steps.

The air grew instantly freezing and damp. The smell of lake water and mildew filled my nose.

I quietly closed the trapdoor above us, plunging us into the pitch-black tunnel before turning on the flashlight.

The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a long, brick-lined corridor that seemed to stretch forever.

We walked for what felt like hours, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the wet walls. Above us, the muffled sounds of gunfire and shouting slowly faded away.

We had escaped the house.

Eventually, the tunnel ended at a heavy wooden door. I pushed it open.

We stepped out into the biting wind and pouring rain. We were standing inside an old, abandoned boathouse on the edge of Lake Michigan. The water crashed violently against the wooden pylons.

Vincent’s private dock was empty.

I looked out into the storm, shielding the girls from the rain. We were miles from the city, freezing, and being hunted by a private army.

I had to get us to Union Station. I had to find out what Sofia left in that locker.

Suddenly, the beam of a high-powered flashlight cut through the darkness of the boathouse, blinding me.

“Put the gun down, Anna.”

The voice was smooth, cultured, and dripping with venom.

I raised my arm, squinting against the harsh light.

Standing in the doorway of the boathouse, holding a suppressed pistol aimed directly at my daughter’s chest, was Dominic Vesceri.

But he wasn’t alone.

Standing right beside him, holding an umbrella over Dominic’s head, was a man I hadn’t seen in three years.