Chapter 5 - THE CABIN IN THE WOODS
I burst out of the study, slamming the heavy oak doors shut behind me. “Lock it!” I screamed at the two security guards in the foyer. “Do not let her out!” The guards didn't hesitate, immediately engaging the heavy deadbolts. Vanessa began pounding frantically on the wood from the inside, screaming curses that echoed through the marble entryway. I ignored her. My heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs. The cabin. Vanessa’s text message hadn't specified a location, but I didn't need coordinates. I had spent the last eleven months cleaning every inch of this mansion, dusting framed photographs, organizing files, and listening to the family’s stories. I remembered a silver-framed photograph in Daniel’s bedroom. It was a picture of Isabella and a much younger Daniel standing on a wooden porch surrounded by tall pine trees. Written on the back in faded ink was: Lake Geneva, Summer 2023. Luca owned a private hunting cabin across the Wisconsin border. It was isolated, heavily wooded, and almost entirely off the grid. It was the perfect place to hide a hostage. I pulled my cell phone out and dialed Luca’s number again. Voicemail. He was likely already at the railyard, maintaining radio silence for the tactical breach. He was walking directly into a trap. I couldn't wait for him to check his phone. I ran to the front door and grabbed the heavy set of spare keys hanging on the security hook. I burst out of the mansion into the pouring rain. The driveway was slick and dark. I ran to the sleek, black Range Rover parked near the garages—the vehicle usually reserved for running estate errands. I climbed into the driver’s seat, my hands shaking so badly I could barely insert the key into the ignition. The powerful engine roared to life. I threw the SUV into gear and sped down the long driveway. The iron gates opened automatically as I approached. I merged onto the dark, rain-swept highway, pushing the speedometer past eighty. Lake Geneva was an hour away in good weather. I made it in forty-five minutes. The rain had turned into a freezing drizzle by the time I turned off the main highway onto the unmarked gravel road leading deep into the woods. The towering pine trees swallowed the headlights, creating a claustrophobic tunnel of darkness. I turned off the headlights, relying only on the pale moonlight filtering through the clouds. I didn't want to announce my arrival. I parked the Range Rover about a half-mile down the road, hiding it behind a thick cluster of evergreen bushes. I stepped out into the freezing mud. I had no weapon, no backup, and no training. I was wearing a black maid’s uniform and sensible flats. But I thought of Daniel’s tear-stained face, and I forced myself to walk forward. I moved silently through the wet underbrush, following the gravel path on foot. After ten minutes, the trees parted. Sitting in a small clearing was a large, two-story log cabin. A single dim light burned in the downstairs window. A black, unmarked van was parked near the porch. I crept closer, crouching behind a stack of chopped firewood near the side window. I carefully peeked over the logs, peering through the rain-streaked glass. The living room of the cabin was sparsely furnished. A fire crackled in the stone hearth. Standing near the fireplace was a tall, heavily muscled man wearing a dark tactical jacket. He was pacing, checking his watch, holding a suppressed handgun. Vanessa’s brother. And sitting in a wooden chair in the center of the room was Isabella. My breath caught. She looked exactly like the photograph from Vanessa’s purse. Exhausted, pale, and bruised. Her hands were zip-tied behind her back. But as I watched her, I noticed something strange. Isabella wasn't cowering. She wasn't weeping or begging for her life. She was sitting perfectly upright, her chin tilted in defiance, glaring at her captor with a cold, terrifying intensity that reminded me exactly of Luca. “Check your phone again, Marco,” Isabella said. Her voice was raspy, but laced with absolute authority. The man stopped pacing and sneered at her. “Her name is Vanessa. And she’ll call when she’s ready.” “She’s not going to call,” Isabella countered, a sharp, mocking smile touching her lips. “Vanessa is a coward. She’s probably already on a train to Mexico. She used you, just like she used my husband.” “Shut your mouth,” the brother snapped, raising the handgun. “Shoot me,” Isabella challenged flawlessly. “Go ahead. But if I’m dead, you’ll never find the ledger.” The man froze. His finger hesitated on the trigger. “What ledger?” he demanded. Isabella let out a harsh laugh. “You really are the stupid sibling. Did you think I just let Vanessa kidnap me eighteen months ago without a fight? I knew exactly what she was planning. Before your men took me from my house, I found Vanessa’s private accounting book. The one documenting every dollar she and your father stole from the Chicago syndicates.” My eyes widened in the dark. Isabella hadn't just been a victim. She had been gathering evidence to destroy the Bellini family. “Where is it?” the brother roared, crossing the room and grabbing Isabella by the throat. “Hidden,” Isabella gasped, glaring up at him. “In a place Vanessa will never, ever look. Kill me, and my lawyer releases it to the feds tomorrow morning. Your entire family goes to prison for the rest of their lives.” The man released her throat, stepping back in sheer panic. He pulled out a cell phone and frantically began dialing. This was my chance. I looked around the side of the cabin. A few feet away, leaning against the wall, was a heavy iron fire poker. I grabbed it. It was heavy, solid metal. I crept onto the wooden porch, wincing at every creak of the floorboards. I reached the front door. It was unlocked. I took a deep breath, gripped the iron poker with both hands, and pushed the door open. The brother spun around, dropping his phone, raising his handgun. “Who the hell—” He didn't finish the sentence. Before he could aim, a deafening gunshot shattered the quiet of the cabin. But it didn't come from his gun. The brother’s eyes went wide. He dropped his weapon, clutching his shoulder, and collapsed to the wooden floor, groaning in agony. I screamed, dropping the fire poker, terrified that another shooter was in the room. I looked toward the open front door behind me. Standing on the porch, lowering a smoking, double-barreled hunting shotgun, was Teresa Moretti.
