Chapter 1 - The Echo of a Song
The heavy wooden door clicked shut with a soft, final thud, leaving me alone in the fluorescent-lit tomb of the basement kitchen.
The silence that followed was suffocating. I stood frozen by the industrial sink, the cold water still rushing uselessly over the stainless steel basin, listening to the muffled echo of Carmine’s footsteps fading up the stone corridor. My mind spun in wild, erratic circles. How did he know about my mother’s old songs? I had never sung them in the house. I had barely whispered them to myself during late-night shifts when the exhaustion grew too heavy to carry alone.
My fingers hovered over the clean, polished surface of the copper skillet. The bruises on my throat throbbed with every pulse of my heart, a stark, painful reminder of Rocco’s fingers and the terror of the wine cellar. But that terror was suddenly eclipsed by a much more terrifying realization: Carmine Moretti knew things about me that a billionaire estate owner had no business knowing. He knew my brother’s name. He knew my mother’s voice.
I reached out, my trembling hand finally taking the dry towel he had offered earlier. I pressed it against my swollen lip, wincing as the rough fabric grazed the split skin. Every instinct screamed at me to run—to grab my coat from the staff locker, slip out the service entrance, and disappear into the freezing Chicago night. But Daniel’s face flashed in my mind. The garage where he worked. The apartment he rented. Rocco had the photographs. If I bolted now, I wouldn't just be putting a target on my own back; I’d be walking my brother straight into the crosshairs of a war I didn't understand.
A sudden, sharp knock at the basement service door made me jump so violently I dropped the towel.
The water in the sink seemed to roar. I backed away until my spine hit the cold tile of the pantry wall, my eyes locked on the heavy oak door. Carmine had said not to open it for anyone. But the clock on the wall glared at 3:14 AM, and the thought of being trapped in this concrete basement while a mafia enforcer like Rocco hunted for loose ends felt like a slow-moving execution.
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The knock came again. Harder this time. Followed by a muffled, urgent voice calling my name through the thick wood.
“Elena? Open up. It’s Javier. The boss sent me.”
