Chapter 5 - When the Estate Went Dark
The darkness lasted six seconds.
To Maria, it felt like a lifetime.
She grabbed Sofia.
Vincent grabbed Maria.
A shot cracked somewhere down the corridor.
Elena screamed.
Marco shouted.
Then emergency lights flooded the hallway red.
Vincent pushed Maria behind him.
“Inside.”
Another shot.
Wood splintered from the doorframe.
Maria dropped low.
Sofia began crying.
Vincent drew a gun from beneath his shirt.
“Marco!”
“Left corridor!”
Two Moretti guards rushed toward the stairs.
Vincent slammed the suite door and locked it.
“Bathroom,” he told Maria.
She did not argue.
She carried Sofia into the marble bathroom and crouched behind the tub.
Elena followed.
Outside, footsteps moved.
Quick.
Controlled.
Not panicked.
Maria pressed her hand over Sofia’s ear.
The child buried her face against Maria’s chest.
There was no second gunshot.
Only silence.
That was worse.
Then Vincent’s voice.
“Marco?”
No answer.
A heavy thud.
Maria’s heart stopped.
She heard the door unlock.
She grabbed the only thing within reach.
A glass soap dispenser.
The bathroom door opened.
Vincent appeared.
Blood marked his white sleeve.
Maria stood.
“You’re hurt.”
“Not mine.”
Behind him, Marco leaned against the wall.
His shoulder bled.
Elena rushed toward him.
“What happened?”
“Shooter escaped through service stairs.”
Vincent looked at Maria.
“We move.”
“Where?”
“Not here.”
They crossed the corridor under guard.
One man lay unconscious near the east staircase.
Another was checking the windows.
Vincent led them toward a paneled section of wall.
He pressed a hidden switch.
A narrow door opened.
Maria stared.
“Of course you have secret passages.”
Vincent almost smiled.
“My grandfather had trust issues.”
“He was probably right.”
“Unfortunately.”
They descended a narrow staircase.
Sofia had stopped crying.
She clung to Vincent’s neck now.
Maria had not realized he had taken the girl from her until they were halfway down.
He carried her naturally.
Protectively.
Sofia’s arms were locked around him.
Maria watched the contrast.
The feared Vincent Moretti.
A toddler in a yellow dress.
His hand gently covering the back of her head every time they passed beneath a low beam.
Something moved inside Maria that she immediately refused to name.
They emerged inside a stone wine cellar.
Marco locked the panel behind them.
Vincent set Sofia on a wooden table.
“You okay?”
She nodded.
“You?”
He glanced at the blood on his sleeve.
“Fine.”
“Your shirt is dirty.”
“That’s serious.”
Sofia nodded solemnly.
Maria almost laughed.
The sound surprised her.
Vincent looked toward her.
For one second, their eyes met without fear.
Then Marco spoke.
“We need to assume internal compromise.”
Vincent nodded.
“Phones off.”
Everyone powered devices down.
Elena sat near the wall.
“You know who this feels like.”
Vincent looked at her.
“DeLuca.”
Maria knew the name.
Salvatore DeLuca controlled ports, gambling houses, trucking companies, and half the politicians who pretended not to know him.
The Morettis and DeLucas had maintained peace since Lucia’s death.
At least publicly.
Vincent’s eyes hardened.
“If Salvatore knew Lucia survived the explosion…”
“He knew,” Elena said.
“How?”
“Because he paid for the clinic.”
Vincent stared.
Elena continued.
“I didn’t know at first. Antonio arranged everything. Later I learned where the money came from.”
“Why would DeLuca help my daughter?”
“He didn’t.”
Maria felt cold.
Elena looked toward Sofia before lowering her voice.
“He wanted Lucia alive because a living child was more valuable than a dead one.”
Vincent’s face hardened.
“What stopped him?”
“Antonio moved us before DeLuca’s men arrived.”
“Where?”
“A convent hospital outside Newark.”
“And Rocco?”
“He gave Antonio the route.”
Marco swore quietly.
Vincent’s eyes went distant.
The betrayal had layers.
Maria could see him rearranging years of memory.
Every funeral.
Every alliance.
Every handshake.
Every man he had trusted.
Suddenly Sofia spoke.
“The butterfly man.”
Everyone turned.
“What?” Maria asked.
Sofia pointed toward a rack of wine bottles.
A small wooden crate sat beneath it.
Painted on the side was a purple butterfly.
Vincent crossed the room.
He pulled the crate out.
Dust covered it.
Marco looked confused.
“That’s been there for years.”
Vincent crouched.
There was a brass latch.
No lock.
Inside were old children’s art supplies.
Lucia’s.
Maria recognized the same style of paint jar from the forbidden room.
Vincent removed a folded sheet of paper.
A child’s drawing.
Lucia had drawn five people.
A tall man labeled DADDY.
A woman labeled MOMMY.
A little girl labeled ME.
Another man labeled UNCLE TONY.
And a fifth figure.
Tall.
Gray hair.
A black coat.
The words beneath him were written unevenly.
BAD UNCLE R.
Nobody spoke.
Vincent stared.
Rocco.
Elena covered her mouth.
“I never saw that.”
Vincent flipped the paper over.
There was more.
A child’s handwriting.
UNCLE R SAID DADDY HAS TO GO AWAY.
Maria felt a chill.
Vincent’s face became stone.
He looked at Elena.
“When was this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Lucia drew dates on everything.”
They searched.
Lower corner.
A purple number.
April 17.
Two weeks before the bombing.
Vincent closed his eyes.
All the signs had existed.
A child had even drawn them.
And every adult had missed them.
Sofia picked up a purple crayon from the box.
Maria gently took it from her.
“No, sweetheart.”
“It’s pretty.”
“I know.”
Vincent looked at the crayon.
Then at the painting supplies.
“What if this wasn’t stored here?”
Marco frowned.
“What do you mean?”
“This crate was in Lucia’s room.”
Elena nodded.
“Yes.”
“I remember packing it after the funeral.”
Marco looked around.
“Then who moved it?”
Vincent stood.
“The same person who wanted Sofia to find the painting.”
Maria frowned.
“But why?”
Vincent looked toward the drawing.
“To make me look.”
“At what?”
“At everything I refused to see.”
A metallic sound echoed from the far end of the cellar.
Everyone turned.
Marco raised his weapon.
The sound came again.
A scrape.
Behind a shelf.
Vincent signaled the guards.
Two men moved forward.
They shifted the heavy wine rack.
Behind it was another door.
Old.
Narrow.
Locked from the other side.
Maria remembered Sofia’s words.
The dark room.
The man in Rocco’s coat.
Vincent placed his hand on the handle.
Before he touched it, a voice came through the wood.
Weak.
Male.
“Vincent?”
His face changed.
The voice came again.
“Don’t shoot.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Who is that?”
A pause.
Then:
“Antonio.”
Elena dropped the drawing.
Vincent’s hand froze above the lock.
Antonio Vescari had been dead for four years.
May you like
But something moved behind the door.
And then the lock clicked open from the inside.
