Chapter 9 - The Laundry ChuteI moved before fear could argue.
The bench was heavier than it looked.
Bolted, yes, but old. I kicked the side once. Pain shot through my foot. I kicked again. The metal bracket groaned.
Valentina tapped the door again.
“Emma, honey. Don’t you want to come out?”
Emma began to cry silently.
That was worse than sobbing.
I pressed a finger to my lips.
She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks.
I kicked the bench a third time.
The bracket snapped.
The bench shifted just enough for me to reach the vent panel.
No screwdriver.
No tools.
I searched the room wildly and grabbed the metal edge of a first-aid kit. I jammed it into the screw slot and twisted. The first screw moved. The second stuck.
Outside, Valentina’s voice hardened.
“Sophia, open the door.”
I kept twisting.
“You don’t want me upset when I come in.”
The screw popped free.
I pulled the grate loose.
A dark rectangular opening waited behind it.
Cold air breathed out.
Emma shook her head violently.
“No dark.”
“I know. I know, baby.”
I looked into the chute.
Narrow.
Dusty.
Angled downward.
Big enough for Emma easily.
For me, maybe.
Maybe not.
My heart hammered against my ribs.
A keypad beeped outside the door.
Valentina was entering codes.
One failed.
Another.
“Emma,” I whispered. “You’re going to slide first.”
Her eyes widened.
“No.”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
“No, Mama.”
“I promise.”
“No.”
The keypad beeped again.
A different sound this time.
Accepted.
The lock began to turn.
I had no time to make her brave.
So I made myself cruel.
I shoved Mr. Rabbit into the chute.
Emma gasped.
“Rabbit!”
“He needs you. Go get him.”
She crawled in instantly.
Forgive me, baby.
Forgive me.
Her little shoes disappeared into the darkness.
I climbed after her just as the protected room door opened behind me.
Valentina shouted.
I shoved myself into the chute.
A hand grabbed my ankle.
Pain exploded up my leg.
I kicked backward hard.
My heel connected with something soft.
Valentina cursed.
I pulled forward, scraping my elbows on metal, forcing my shoulders through a space too small for panic. The chute sloped sharply. Gravity took me.
I slid.
Metal tore my sleeve. Dust filled my mouth. Emma cried somewhere below me.
“Keep going!” I shouted.
A gunshot cracked behind us.
The sound became monstrous inside the chute.
I screamed.
Not from pain.
From the thought that the bullet might find Emma.
But the shot hit metal above me, sparking, whining into darkness.
Then I dropped.
The chute ended suddenly.
I fell onto a pile of old canvas bags and rolled hard onto concrete.
For a second, I could not breathe.
“Mama!”
Emma crawled from behind a laundry cart clutching Mr. Rabbit.
I grabbed her and checked every inch of her.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“Are you sure?”
“My knee dirty.”
I laughed and sobbed at the same time.
Above us, Valentina shouted into the chute.
“You stupid woman!”
I looked around.
We were in a low tunnel lined with pipes. The emergency lights here were dimmer, spaced far apart, turning the darkness into long red wounds.
I picked Emma up.
“Hold on tight.”
We ran.
My foot hurt where Valentina had grabbed me. My elbows burned. My lungs filled with dust. But I ran because mothers become machines when their children are hunted.
Behind us, metal clanged.
Valentina was coming down.
No.
Not just Valentina.
Men’s voices echoed above.
I ran faster.
The tunnel split in two.
Left or right.
No signs.
No arrows.
No Alessandro.
Emma pointed right.
“That way.”
“Why?”
“Cold.”
I did not have time to question toddler logic.
I turned right.
The tunnel sloped upward. Cold air grew stronger. Somewhere ahead, I smelled soil and winter plants.
The winter garden.
We reached a rusted ladder.
Above it, a square hatch.
I set Emma down.
“Can you climb?”
She nodded, then shook her head, then nodded again.
I climbed first just enough to push the hatch.
It did not move.
Locked.
Of course.
I shoved harder.
Nothing.
Footsteps echoed behind us.
I climbed down, grabbed an old pipe wrench from the wall, and struck the hatch.
Once.
Twice.
The third hit sent pain through my arms.
The fourth cracked the latch.
The hatch opened upward, and cold daylight spilled in.
I lifted Emma.
“Climb.”
She climbed badly, slowly, bravely.
I pushed from beneath until small hands grabbed her from above.
I screamed.
Then Nico’s voice said, “I’ve got her.”
Relief nearly made me collapse.
I climbed after her.
Nico pulled me out into the winter garden, a glass-walled room filled with citrus trees, bare vines, and marble planters. Snow pressed against the glass outside. The sky beyond was white.
Alessandro was there.
So were two guards.
His left sleeve was torn and dark with blood.
“You said less than dramatic,” I snapped.
He looked at his arm.
“It became more dramatic.”
Emma ran to him before I could stop her.
“You came back!”
“I promised.”
She threw her arms around the side of his wheelchair.
He froze.
Completely.
Then slowly, carefully, he rested one hand on her back.
Just for a second.
Nico turned away, jaw tight.
The moment shattered when Valentina’s voice echoed from the hatch below.
“She’s here!”
Nico slammed the hatch shut and locked it.
“They’re under us,” he said.
Alessandro pointed toward the far doors.
“Move to the chapel corridor.”
We crossed the winter garden fast.
Too fast.
Because halfway across, the far doors opened.
Luca stood there.
He held Mrs. Bellini in front of him with a gun pressed to her side.
Her white hair had fallen loose.
Blood marked her temple.
Luca’s face was wild now. The polished cousin was gone. What remained was uglier and more honest.
“Enough,” he said.
Everyone stopped.
Nico raised his weapon.
Luca pressed the gun harder into Mrs. Bellini.
“She dies first.”
Alessandro’s wheelchair stopped in the center of the garden.
Emma whimpered.
I pulled her behind me.
Luca looked at my daughter and smiled.
“There she is. The little witness.”
Alessandro’s voice was quiet.
“Let Lucia go.”
Luca laughed.
“You always did love the servants more than your blood.”
“Let her go.”
“No.”
From beneath us came pounding on the hatch.
Valentina was seconds away.
Luca’s eyes moved to Alessandro.
“All of this because of a child with a cookie.”
Alessandro looked at Emma.
Then at Luca.
“No,” he said. “All of this because you mistook kindness for weakness.”
May you like
Luca’s hand tightened on the gun.
Then the glass ceiling above us shattered.
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