Chapter 6 - Midnight at the Greenhouse
The grandfather clock in the grand hallway chimed twelve times, each heavy stroke echoing like a death knell through the darkened mansion.
I wore dark running shoes, black leggings, and a thick hooded sweatshirt. My heart pounded against my ribs as I slipped out of the east wing side door and stepped into the chilly Chicago night air.
The moon was hidden behind heavy, bruised-looking storm clouds, plunging the estate gardens into near-total darkness. The towering hedges looked like jagged black monsters looming on either side of the narrow stone pathway leading toward the glass greenhouse.
Every rustle of wind through the oak trees sounded like footsteps. Every shadow felt like an assassin waiting to strike.
When I finally reached the wrought-iron doors of the greenhouse, the glass structure glowed faintly from the ambient light of distant streetlamps. The door was unlocked, hanging open by an inch.
I pushed it open with my fingertips, slipping inside.
The humid air smelled heavily of damp earth, blooming jasmine, and crushed tomato leaves. Rows of exotic plants and towering ferns created a labyrinth of deep shadows.
“I know you’re here,” I whispered into the quiet darkness. “Show yourself.”
A floorboard creaked behind me.
Before I could turn around, a large hand clamped firmly over my mouth, and an arm banded around my waist, lifting my feet off the ground and dragging me deep into the shadows behind a massive cluster of banana trees.
I lashed out, driving my elbow backward with all my weight.
Thud.
“Christ, Elena! Will you stop trying to murder me for five minutes?” hissed a familiar, strained voice.
The hand slid off my mouth. I spun around, shoving my attacker against the glass pane.
It was Marco.
He was holding his ribs, wincing in pain, his dark eyes glittering with annoyance in the dim light.
“Marco? What the hell are you doing?” I hissed, keeping my fists clenched. “Did you leave that note in the library?”
“Keep your voice down!” Marco snapped, checking the doorway over his shoulder. “And no, I didn't leave the note. But I know who did.”
My breath caught. “Who?”
“Dante,” Marco saidgrimly. “The same man who set up your brother and sold him out to the Sinaloa cartel.”
The ground seemed to drop out from under me. “Dante? But... he’s Vincent’s right-hand man. He sits at the head of the table!”
“He was Vincent’s right-hand man,” Marco corrected. “Until yesterday, when Vincent discovered that Dante had been skimming millions from our port operations and funneling the profits to the cartel in exchange for protection. Vincent hasn't executed him yet because he wants to trace every single offshore account first.”
“And the note?” I asked, my heart pounding in my throat. “If Dante didn't leave it, who did?”
A cold, metallic click echoed from the far end of the greenhouse aisle—the unmistakable sound of a Beretta pistol being cocked.
“I left it, sweetheart,” a smooth, dangerous voice drawled from the darkness.
May you like
Marco shoved me behind his back instantly, drawing his own weapon in a blur of motion.
Step by step, a tall figure emerged from behind the rows of blooming orchids. Dante. His tailored suit was immaculate, and a sickening, predatory smile played across his lips. In his right hand, he held a silenced pistol pointed directly at Marco’s chest.
