Chapter 7 - The Shadow in the Cellar
Three days later, the rain returned to the Hudson Valley, washing down the granite walls of the estate like tears over an open grave.
The mansion was quiet. Domenico had traveled into the city with Lorenzo for an emergency summit of the Commission to deal with the fallout of Marco Bellini’s sudden disappearance and the harbor vacancies. He wasn't expected back until past midnight.
This was my only window.
I wore dark leggings, a black cashmere sweater, and soft rubber-soled flats. In my pocket rested a heavy set of brass keys I had lifted from Signora Vieri’s housekeeping pantry—keys that unlocked the service corridors and the historic sub-levels beneath the main foundation.
I left my suite at precisely eleven o'clock.
The security guards patrolled the perimeter grounds outside in the rain, their flashlights sweeping through the trees. Inside, the estate relied on motion sensors along the primary art galleries and Domenico’s private office. But the sub-levels—the original 19th-century cellars built by Dutch fur traders—were unmonitored, preserved in their archaic brickwork.
I slipped down the rear servants' stairs, each wooden step groaning faintly under my weight.
At the bottom of the stairs lay the wine cellar: a cavernous room filled with thousands of bottles aging in dark walnut racks under low, arched brick ceilings. The air was cool, damp, and smelled of oak, vintage merlot, and stone dust.
I moved past the racks of Bordeaux and Barolo toward the far wall.
There, just as Bellini had sobbed during his interrogation, stood a heavy iron-banded door partially obscured behind a massive decorative rack of empty champagne bottles.
My heart beat in my throat. I squeezed between the racks, ignoring the cold brick scraping against my hips, and examined the lock. It wasn't an antique brass tumbler; it was an electronic digital keypad installed into the historic iron frame.
Six digits.
I stared at the blinking blue light. Domenico was a man of precision, a man obsessed with legacy and dates. What numbers ruled his mind?
The date he took over the family?
The date of his father’s death?
Or the date his empire began?
I remembered the blue blueprints on the terrace table: *Pier 42.*
The fire had occurred on October 14th, ten years ago.
**1-0-1-4-1-4.**
I punched the numbers into the keypad.
*Click.*
The light turned from blue to solid green. The magnetic lock disengaged with a dull, heavy thud.
I pulled the iron door open. It swung inward without a sound, revealing a small, climate-controlled bunker lined with steel filing cabinets, a single desk, and an illuminated glass display case.
I stepped inside and shut the door behind me.
On the desk sat a heavy black binder labeled: **TERMINAL 42 – AUDIT & ACQUISITION (1995–PRESENT).**
My hands shook as I opened the binder.
The first page was an internal memo written in 2014, bearing the signature of Domenico’s father, Don Silvio Moretti. It was a direct authorization for an arson squad led by Carmine Marcone’s enforcers to eliminate Anthony Romano and burn the warehouse.
*There it was.* The proof. The link between the Moretti family and my father’s murder.
I turned the page, ready to photograph the documents with the small burner phone I had hidden in my bra.
Then my eyes caught the second document.
It was an autopsy report dated October 16th, 2014.
Attached to it was a handwritten letter on personalized stationery, dated five years ago—the year Domenico took over the syndicate.
The handwriting was sharp, elegant, unmistakably Domenico’s.
> *"To: Internal Archive.*
> *"Subject: Anthony Romano.*
>
> *"Upon full forensic review of the 2014 Pier 42 incident, it is confirmed that Anthony Romano was not murdered by the Moretti family directive. The fire was initiated by Carmine Marcone in an unsanctioned attempt to frame Silvio Moretti and force a gang war. Silvio Moretti covered up the incident out of pride, claiming responsibility to appear ruthless to the Commission.*
>
> *"Anthony Romano was a man of honor. His family disappeared before reparations could be made. Any asset recovered from Marcone’s Red Hook operations shall be covertly directed toward the Romano estate trust once the heirs are identified.*
>
> *"Signed, Domenico Moretti."*
I stopped breathing.
The room tilted. The air vanished from my lungs.
My father hadn't been killed by the Morettis.
He had been killed by Carmine Marcone. The old monster in the velvet jacket at the gala. The man who had mocked me. The man whose syndicate had used my father’s death to claw their way into Brooklyn.
Domenico’s father had lied to look terrifying. But Domenico had spent the last five years hunting down the truth—and quietly preparing to wipe out Marcone for the stain on the docks.
"Looking for bedtime reading, Beatrice?" a deep voice asked from the doorway.
I spun around.
Domenico stood in the threshold of the vault.
May you like
He was drenched from the rain, his black overcoat clinging to his broad shoulders, water dripping from his dark hair. In his right hand, he held a black Beretta, pointed straight at my chest.
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