Chapter 5 - THE BLOOD IN THE CELLAR
The mansion’s service staircase was narrow, dark, and smelled of damp plaster and age. I moved silently down the wooden steps, wearing soft-soled rubber shoes from my medical kit, keeping my shoulder pressed against the brick wall.
Voices echoed from the floor above—shouting, heavy footsteps, the muffled sound of men arguing in the grand library. Matteo was holding his summit with the capos. The house was distracted, but that made it more dangerous; nervous men with guns were prone to shooting first and asking questions later.
I reached the basement level. The air here was noticeably colder, thick with the smell of earth, old wood, and fermenting wine.
I slipped through a heavy archway into the main cellar. Rows of floor-to-ceiling wooden racks stretched into the darkness, housing hundreds of dust-covered bottles. Low-voltage yellow lights hung from the exposed ceiling beams, casting long, swaying shadows across the concrete floor.
Elena had said the crate was under the floorboards in the wine storage.
I navigated through the maze of racks, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. Every creak of the old foundation sent a surge of adrenaline through my veins. I kept Dante’s pistol concealed beneath my light jacket, my hand sweating against the textured grip.
At the far end of the cellar stood a heavy oak door marked RESERVE VAULT.
The door was slightly ajar. A thin strip of light spilled out onto the stone floor.
I approached cautiously, crouching behind a massive oak barrel. I peeked through the hinge gap.
Inside the vault, a man was standing over a opened floor hatch.
It wasn't Vincent.
It was Leo Romano.
I froze.
Leo was kneeling beside a wooden box, packing small glass vials into a black leather pouch—the exact twin of the duffel bag he had brought to my shop in Brooklyn.
“You’re taking too long, Leo.”
Another voice echoed from inside the room. Vincent Corvo walked into my line of sight, holding a suppressed pistol at his side.
Leo didn't look up. “The capos are already split. Half of them want Matteo to take over by tonight. The other half want to wait until Dante actually stops breathing.”
“Dante isn't going to last until tonight,” Vincent said cold. “The girl gave him something that triggered a massive reaction. His body is rejecting everything. He’ll be dead before sunset.”
Leo paused, his fingers resting on a glass vial. “And the girl?”
“She served her purpose,” Vincent replied casually. “She gave us the official medical cover. 'Dante Moretti died of acute systemic organ failure despite the best efforts of a renowned specialist.' It’s clean. Once Dante is gone, we eliminate her and make it look like she fled with the money.”
My blood ran cold.
The two hundred thousand dollars in Brooklyn. The private jet. The urgent middle-of-the-night flight. It was never about saving Dante. It was about creating a scapegoat. If Dante died under my care, Leo and Vincent could claim I had poisoned him for money, kill me, and take total control of the Moretti network alongside Matteo.
Leo stood up, zipping the black pouch. “What about Matteo? Does he know we’re closing the window today?”
“Matteo thinks he’s the mastermind,” Vincent chuckled grimly. “He thinks he’s using us to get his brother’s seat. He has no idea that once Dante is buried, the capos are going to find Matteo’s offshore accounts linked to the poison buys. He’ll take the blame for the whole thing, and you and I take the entire operation.”
It was a double coup.
Matteo was poisoning his brother out of greed, but Leo and Vincent were framing Matteo for the murder while using me to shield themselves from suspicion.
I backed away slowly from the oak door, my heel scraping against a loose pebble on the concrete floor.
Snap.
The sound was tiny, but in the dead quiet of the cellar, it sounded like a gun shot.
“Who’s there?” Vincent’s sharp voice rang out from inside the vault.
I didn't wait to find out if he was coming to check. I turned and ran into the shadows of the wine racks.
“Check the perimeter!” Vincent yelled.
Heavy footsteps pounded across the concrete behind me. Flashlight beams cut through the darkness, sweeping across the rows of wine bottles.
I ducked behind a double-stacked rack of Italian reds, pressing my back against the wood, holding my breath. My heart was hammering so hard I was terrified they would hear it.
A beam of light swept past my shoes.
Vincent’s silhouette appeared at the end of the aisle, holding his suppressed weapon pointed straight ahead. “Ms. Rossi? Is that you down here?”
I didn't answer. I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out a small glass bottle of concentrated ammonia I carried for revival treatments.
Vincent stepped closer, his heavy boots crunching on the dusty floor. “You shouldn't have come down here, doctor. You could have had a quick end. Now things are going to get complicated.”
He turned the corner into my aisle.
I didn't hesitate. I uncapped the ammonia bottle and splashed the volatile chemical directly into his eyes and face.
Vincent shrieked as the caustic fumes hit his mucous membranes, his gun hand swinging wildly. He fired two suppressed shots—pfft, pfft—shattering three bottles of Chianti above my head. Wine and glass rained down on us.
I lunged forward, slamming the heavy butt of Dante’s pistol into the side of Vincent’s jaw with every ounce of strength I had.
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He collapsed sideways into the wine rack, crashing into the wooden framework and bringing fifty bottles down on top of him. He hit the floor unconscious, covered in dark red wine that looked terrifyingly like blood.
I didn't wait to see if he was breathing. I grabbed the black leather pouch containing the remaining poison vials from the vault floor and sprinted toward the service stairs.
