Chapter 2 - The West Wing DoorLeo Rossi moved like fear had never touched him.
One second Clare was on the floor behind his massive oak desk, shards of glass in her hair and rain blowing through the shattered library window.
The next second Leo was beside her with a gun in his hand.
She had no idea where it came from.
One moment his hands were empty.
The next they were not.
“Stay down,” he ordered.
Clare did not argue.
Another shot ripped through the room. A porcelain vase exploded near the fireplace. White fragments scattered across the carpet like broken teeth.
Mrs. Gable was crouched near the sofa, trembling violently.
“Leo,” she cried. “Please.”
Leo did not look at her.
“Who else is in the house?”
“The night staff. Two drivers. Kitchen girls. Guards at the east entrance.”
“And Salvatore’s men?”
Mrs. Gable’s lips shook.
Leo pointed the gun at her.
“Answer carefully.”
“West wing,” she whispered.
Clare’s heart stopped.
The west wing.
The part of the house no maid cleaned unless personally ordered. The corridor with locked doors and rugs thick enough to swallow footsteps. The place where Clare once saw a man walk out with blood on his shirt and another man follow carrying a rolled-up carpet.
Leo’s face did not change.
“How many?”
“I don’t know.”
He lowered the gun slightly. “You let my uncle put armed men inside my house.”
Mrs. Gable’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Another blast of glass exploded above them.
Leo reached under the desk and pressed something.
A steel shutter slammed down over the broken window.
The sound was so sudden and violent Clare flinched hard enough to hit her shoulder against the desk.
For one second, there was silence.
Then pounding began on the library door.
“Boss!” a man shouted from outside. “Open up!”
Leo did not answer.
He pulled Clare to her feet.
She almost stumbled.
Blood ran from a small cut near her temple, warm and frightening.
Leo noticed. His eyes flicked to it, then back to the door.
“Can you run?”
“Yes.”
It was a lie.
He knew it.
But he accepted it because they had no time.
Mrs. Gable crawled toward him. “Please. He made me do it.”
Leo looked down at her. “Who took my mother to Boston?”
“I don’t know.”
“Who paid St. Jude’s?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where is Salvatore tonight?”
Her face crumpled.
“Here.”
The pounding stopped.
That was worse than the noise.
Leo turned toward the wall behind his desk and pulled down a framed oil painting of a young woman in a white dress.
Clare had dusted that painting before.
She had thought the woman looked sad.
Now she understood.
It was his mother.
Behind the frame was a keypad.
Leo entered six numbers. A hidden door opened soundlessly.
Clare stared.
A passageway.
Of course there was a passageway.
Rich men had secrets even inside their secrets.
Leo pushed Clare through first, then Mrs. Gable.
The passage was narrow and dark, lined with stone. The air smelled old and cold.
Leo shut the hidden door just as the library door burst open behind them.
Men rushed in.
Clare heard boots.
Shouting.
Then a voice.
Smooth. Older. Almost amused.
“Leonardo,” the man called. “You always were sentimental.”
Leo froze.
His hand tightened around the gun.
Clare knew before anyone said the name.
Salvatore Rossi had entered the room.
“Come out,” Salvatore said. “We need to talk like family.”
Leo stayed silent.
Mrs. Gable covered her mouth with both hands.
Clare barely breathed.
Through the wall, Salvatore continued.
“You think the maid found a ghost, yes? You think your poor mother has been waiting somewhere for her son to rescue her. It’s touching.”
Leo’s face was carved from stone.
“But you were always your mother’s son,” Salvatore said. “Soft where it mattered. Proud where it killed you.”
A match struck.
Clare heard it.
Smelled smoke.
“They’re burning the room,” Mrs. Gable whispered.
Leo grabbed her by the collar and dragged her forward. “Move.”
They ran.
The passage sloped downward beneath the estate. Clare’s shoes slipped on damp stone. Once, she almost fell, but Leo caught her arm without slowing.
Behind them, smoke began to seep through the cracks.
Mrs. Gable sobbed as she ran.
At the end of the passage stood a metal door.
Leo unlocked it with a key from his pocket.
They emerged into darkness.
Not outside.
Somewhere colder.
Clare looked around and saw shelves of wine bottles.
A cellar.
Leo closed the passage door and turned the lock.
A single bulb flickered overhead.
Mrs. Gable leaned against a shelf, gasping.
Clare pressed a hand to her chest, trying to breathe quietly.
Then she heard something above them.
Footsteps.
The cellar was under the west wing.
Leo heard it too.
He lifted the gun.
“Stay behind me.”
Mrs. Gable shook her head wildly. “No. Not that way.”
Leo looked at her.
“What is down here?”
Mrs. Gable did not answer.
Clare turned slowly.
At the far end of the cellar, beyond stacked crates and racks of expensive wine, stood a door painted the same dark red as dried blood.
There was no handle on this side.
Only a keypad.
And beneath the door, thin light showed.
Someone was inside.
Leo walked toward it.
Mrs. Gable grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t.”
He stared at her hand until she released him.
“Why?”
“Because once you open that door, you cannot unknow what your uncle built.”
Leo’s voice was quiet.
“I already cannot unknow it.”
He approached the keypad.
Clare followed because standing alone felt worse.
The door had scratches around the frame.
Not old scratches.
Fresh ones.
Like someone had tried to claw their way out.
Leo entered a code.
Wrong.
A red light flashed.
He tried another.
Wrong.
Mrs. Gable whispered, “0418.”
Leo’s head turned.
Mrs. Gable’s eyes filled with tears.
“Your mother’s birthday.”
Leo entered the numbers.
The lock clicked.
The red door opened inward.
The room beyond was not a room.
It was a prison.
White tile walls. Metal drain in the center of the floor. A cot bolted to one side. Cabinets of medical supplies. Restraints. Cameras in every corner.
Clare put one hand over her mouth.
On the cot sat Tommy.
Her brother.
His face was swollen. His wrists were tied. Blood darkened the collar of his shirt.
“Clare?” he rasped.
She ran to him.
Leo caught her before she crossed the threshold.
“Wait.”
Too late.
Something beeped.
A light above the door turned red.
Tommy’s eyes widened.
“Clare, don’t come in!”
The door slammed shut behind them.
Leo, Clare, and Tommy were trapped inside.
Mrs. Gable remained outside the glass window beside the door, screaming soundlessly.
A speaker crackled overhead.
Then Salvatore Rossi’s voice filled the room.
“Now we can talk.”
Leo looked toward the camera.
His gun rose.
Salvatore chuckled.
“Shoot it if it comforts you. There are seven more.”
Clare clutched Tommy’s face, tears burning her eyes.
“What did they do to you?”
Tommy tried to speak, but Leo cut in.
“Salvatore.”
“My nephew,” the voice said warmly. “You found one basement. Did you think it was the first?”
Leo’s eyes went colder.
“My mother.”
“Ah. Always straight to the painful thing.”
“Where is she?”
There was a pause.
Then Salvatore said, “Alive enough to matter. Dead enough to behave.”
Clare felt the words move through Leo like a blade.
“You are going to open this door,” Leo said.
“No. I am going to make you choose. The maid knows where she saw Bella. The brother knows why the maid was brought here. You know enough to become dangerous. One of you leaves that room tonight.”
Tommy began shaking his head. “No. No, Clare, I’m sorry.”
Clare turned to him. “What did you do?”
Tommy sobbed once.
“Tommy.”
He looked at her like a child.
“They didn’t hire you because of my debt,” he whispered. “They made the debt because they wanted you inside the house.”
Clare staggered backward.
Leo looked at Tommy.
“Why?”
Tommy’s eyes flicked toward the camera.
“Because she sat with your mother,” he whispered. “Because your mother told her something before she disappeared from the hospice.”
Clare shook her head. “No. She didn’t. She only sang.”
Tommy closed his eyes.
“She gave you something, Clare.”
Clare froze.
Five years earlier, an old woman in Boston had pressed a folded prayer card into her hand.
Clare had kept it because she felt sorry for her.
Because no one had come to claim her.
Because no one had loved her.
Now, in the white room beneath the Rossi estate, Clare remembered the words written on the back.
Not in English.
Numbers.
A name.
And a drawing of a sparrow.
Leo saw her face.
May you like
“What did she give you?”
Clare whispered, “I think your mother left me a map.”
