Chapter 3 - The Sub-Level Secret
The heavy iron door of the sub-level cellar groaned on its rusted hinges as Carmine threw his shoulder against it, forcing it wide open.
A wave of damp, stagnant air rushed up the stone steps, carrying with it a faint, sickeningly familiar odor—the sharp, chemical tang of burnt almonds and copper dye.
The exact same chemical smell that had been laced into the industrial synthetic stitches hidden inside my shoulder three weeks ago.
I stopped dead at the top of the stone staircase, my hand instinctively pressing against my left shoulder beneath my shirt. Beside me, Evelyn stood between two guards, her head bowed, her silence absolute and damning.
“Torch,” Carmine muttered, taking a heavy tactical flashlight from his belt and flicking it on.
The brilliant white beam cut through the pitch-black darkness of the underground room, sweeping across damp stone walls, rows of steel shelving, and stacks of old household archives. But as the light panned toward the far corner, it illuminated something that made my blood freeze.
Set up against the back wall was a makeshift industrial workbench.
On top of the metal table sat a commercial sewing machine, spools of heavy-duty synthetic nylon cord in various colors, medical-grade scalpels, and open crates of municipal shipping manifests bearing the exact same logos as the ones linked to Victor Rossi’s front companies.
“Well, well, well,” Carmine whispered, stepping down into the cellar and running a gloved hand over the surface of the workbench. “Looks like our household manager wasn't just embezzling grocery money from your accounts, boss. She was running a secondary logistics drop for Rossi’s medical supply syndicate right beneath your feet.”
I walked slowly down the stone steps, my boots echoing hollowly in the subterranean dampness. I stopped in front of the workbench, looking down at an open ledger resting beside the sewing machine.
Written in Evelyn’s precise, neat handwriting were columns of names, dates, and financial payouts.
And right at the top of the active page was a name I hadn't expected to see: Anna Crane.
My head snapped up, my eyes fixing on Evelyn as the guards escorted her down the stairs into the cellar light.
“Crane,” I said, the realization dawning with brutal clarity. “Anna isn't just a random housekeeper you hired off an agency list, is she? She’s your niece.”
Evelyn raised her head, her eyes flashing with a sudden, desperate defiance. “She made poor choices. She married a man who racked up gambling debts with Rossi’s loan sharks. When he vanished, the debt fell on her—and on little Lily.”
“So you traded access to my estate,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “You let Rossi’s operatives use my household as a blind drop for contraband and chemical agents in exchange for paying off your niece’s family debts.”
“I protected this house!” Evelyn screamed, her voice cracking as she fought against the grip of the guards. “I kept the operations small! I kept you safe from things you didn't need to know about! If I hadn't taken Rossi’s money to cover Anna’s loans, his enforcers would have killed the girl three months ago!”
“And in exchange, you let them poison me?” I demanded, stepping right up to her, the memory of the sepsis, the fever, and the rotting flesh in my shoulder flaring hot in my mind. “You knew about the stitches. You knew what was in those surgical kits.”
Evelyn stared at me, her chest heaving, her silence confirming every word.
Before I could answer, a frantic, high-pitched commotion echoed from the top of the stone stairs above us.
“Boss! Boss, you need to come up!”
It was Norah, breathless and terrified, tumbling halfway down the stone steps as she pointed back toward the main kitchen.
“What is it?” Carmine snapped, drawing his weapon.
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“It’s Anna and Lily,” Norah choked out, tears streaming down her face. “Two men in utility uniforms just forced their way through the staff entrance. They took the little girl.”
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