Chapter 8 - THE ROOM BENEATH THE CELLAR

Vincent knew the mansion better than anyone.

That was the problem with letting one man build your walls.

He also learns where they’re weakest.

Every exterior gate locked.

Every car stopped.

Every guard searched.

Still no Vincent.

“He didn’t leave,” I said.

Dante looked at me.

“He had ten minutes.”

“Exactly. So stop searching outside.”

Matteo understood first.

“The service tunnels.”

The mansion had been expanded three times.

Old wine storage.

Boiler corridors.

A Prohibition-era passage connecting the cellar to a detached carriage house.

Most had been sealed.

Most.

We went down with Leo and two guards.

Dante insisted on coming.

I argued.

He ignored me.

I threatened to sedate him.

He asked if florists carried sedatives.

I hated him a little for making me laugh.

The cellar smelled like oak, stone, and cold dust.

Behind the secondary security cabinet, we found scratches on the floor.

The entire shelving unit moved.

A hidden door opened behind it.

Matteo looked at Dante.

“You knew about this?”

“No.”

“Good house.”

“Shut up.”

The passage led downward.

Narrow steps.

Concrete walls.

Fresh electrical wiring.

At the bottom was a room.

Not old.

New.

A folding table.

Gloves.

Lab glassware.

A locked metal case.

Dante stood in the doorway and stared.

On the wall were photographs of him.

Leaving restaurants.

Entering hospitals.

Sleeping in a private clinic.

One picture showed him collapsed beside his bed.

Another showed Matteo entering a federal courthouse.

Another showed me unlocking my Brooklyn shop three months earlier.

I stopped breathing.

“He was watching me before Leo contacted me.”

Leo looked sick.

“How?”

Then I saw the notebook photocopies.

My grandfather’s pages.

Vincent had known exactly who I was.

Exactly what I might recognize.

“He wanted me here,” I said.

Dante turned.

“What?”

The message had said I wasn’t supposed to leave.

We assumed that meant kill me.

Maybe it didn’t.

I opened the metal case.

Inside were forged documents.

Bank transfers.

Security overrides.

A typed confession with Matteo’s name at the bottom.

And one final envelope marked CAMILLA ROSSI.

My hands went cold.

I opened it.

Inside was a plane ticket to Switzerland.

A new passport photograph of me.

And a note.

YOU WILL CONFIRM THE BROTHER DID IT.

I stared at it.

“He didn’t want me dead.”

Matteo’s face hardened.

“He wanted you as the expert witness.”

Exactly.

Vincent’s plan wasn’t just to poison Dante.

It was to build a story.

Matteo had access to the bottle.

Matteo’s fingerprints were on the vial.

Matteo was under federal investigation.

Camilla Rossi, independent consultant, would confirm arsenic poisoning.

Then Dante would die.

Matteo would be blamed.

Vincent would inherit temporary control.

Perfect.

Except I found the poisoned glass too early.

And Dante lived.

Leo opened another drawer.

Inside was a voice recorder.

He pressed play.

Vincent’s voice filled the room.

Calm.

Almost bored.

“If Moretti survives the first cycle, increase the concentration by twenty percent. Do not change delivery method. The brother remains contingency target.”

Dante’s face became stone.

Then another voice answered.

A woman.

Unknown.

“What about Rossi?”

Vincent replied.

“She only needs to believe what we show her.”

I felt suddenly cold.

The recording continued.

“If she becomes difficult?”

A pause.

Then Vincent said, “Use the second dose.”

Leo shut it off.

“What second dose?”

No one answered.

I looked at Dante.

At the medication bottle in his coat pocket.

The one his private doctor had sent that morning.

My stomach dropped.

“Don’t take anything.”

Dante frowned.

“I haven’t.”

“Anything. Water. Pills. Food. Nothing that was prepared before Vincent was locked up.”

Matteo looked around.

“If he planned a second dose, where?”

I turned toward the shelf.

A photograph showed Dante at breakfast.

Coffee.

Medicine.

A small silver inhaler beside his plate.

I looked at him.

“Your lungs burn.”

“Yes.”

“You use an inhaler?”

His face changed.

“Sometimes.”

“Where is it?”

He reached into his pocket.

The silver inhaler was already there.

I grabbed his wrist.

“Don’t.”

Then a voice came from the darkness behind us.

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“Too late.”

Vincent stepped out of the passage with a gun pointed at Dante’s chest.