Chapter 2 - The Echo in the Walls
The sound echoed through the high-vaulted ceiling of the drawing room like gunshots.
*Knock. Knock. Knock.*
Marcus drew his semi-automatic pistol in one fluid motion, the metallic slide racking with a crisp click. Two guards materialized from the foyer, weapons drawn, forming a defensive perimeter around Dominic.
“Stay behind me, Claire,” Dominic commanded. His voice held no trace of the groggy, dying man I had dragged across the marble hours earlier. He stepped in front of me, a protective wall of broad shoulders and dark fury.
“Mr. Caruso, you shouldn't be on your feet,” I whispered, my nurse’s instincts warring with raw survival terror. “Your oxygen saturation was barely ninety-four percent this morning. The lingering carboxyhemoglobin—”
“If someone is mocking my dead wife inside my house, lack of oxygen is the least of my concerns,” he cut in coldly. He took a heavy combat handgun from Marcus without breaking his stride toward the stairs. “Marcus, secure the perimeter. Nobody enters or leaves the estate grounds. Claire, you stay down here.”
“I’m coming with you,” I said, adrenaline spiking in my veins. “If someone is poisoned or dying in that room, you’ll need medical intervention, not just bullets.”
He glanced back at me, his sharp jaw tight with tension. For three seconds, his piercing gaze measured my defiance. “You don't know when to run, do you?”
“I have student loans and a mother in hospice care,” I answered through grit teeth. “Fear is a luxury I can’t afford.”
A faint flicker of respect crossed his dark eyes. “Stay on my flank. If I tell you to drop, hit the floor.”
We ascended the grand staircase in total silence, our footsteps muffled by the velvet runner. The second-floor corridor felt unnaturally freezing compared to the suffocating heat of the previous night. The double walnut doors of Elena’s library stood before us, shut tight, sealed by yellow industrial hazard tape left by the fire department inspectors.
*Tap. Tap.*
The sound was fainter now, metallic and hollow.
Dominic signaled Marcus. Marcus kicked the double doors open with a thunderous bang, clearing the threshold with his weapon raised. Dominic moved in behind him, barrel sweeping the room.
The library was bathed in cold morning sunlight filtering through tall, dust-streaked leaded windows. The charred scent of the fireplace still hung in the air, but the room was utterly empty. The overturned armchair where Dominic had fallen still lay on its side.
“Clear,” Marcus called out tensely. “Windows are bolted from the inside. Dust on the sills hasn't been disturbed.”
“Then where did the knocking come from?” I asked, stepping across the threshold, my eyes darting across the mahogany bookshelves that lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
Dominic stood by the massive stone fireplace. His gaze drifted to a life-sized oil portrait hanging above the mantel. The painting depicted a stunning woman with porcelain skin, striking green eyes, and raven-black hair cascading over shoulders clad in emerald silk. Elena Caruso. The beauty in the portrait possessed an ethereal, haunting grace—and an uncanny sadness in her half-smile.
Suddenly, a faint scraping sound came from *inside* the wall behind the portrait.
Dominic walked toward the hearth, his expression lethal. He reached behind the ornate brass filigree of the mantelpiece and pressed an invisible lever. With a muted groan of old counterweights, a six-foot section of the bookshelf swung outward, revealing a narrow, pitch-black vertical corridor concealed within the mansion's original stone masonry.
Marcus aimed his tactical flashlight into the gloom. The beam illuminated a steep iron spiral staircase descending into the depths of the estate.
Lying on the first step was a discarded silver lighter, a single black velvet glove, and a fresh red rose, its petals still dewy.
Dominic picked up the rose. His knuckles whitened until the thorns punctured his skin, drawing a bead of crimson blood.
“She didn't knock on the door,” Dominic whispered, his voice dangerously quiet. “She was in the walls.”
“Dominic, look at the dust,” I said, stepping closer and shining my phone’s flashlight at the floor of the secret passageway. “There are fresh footprints. Size six, narrow heel. But look at this.”
I pointed to a second set of shoe impressions—broad, heavy, treaded boots. Size eleven or twelve.
“She wasn't alone,” Marcus muttered, looking at Dominic. “Someone let her in through the subterranean wine cellars. That entrance bypasses the electronic gate sensors.”
Just then, hurried footsteps sounded from the main hallway. Anthony appeared in the doorway, breathing heavily, his tie slightly askew. He stopped dead when he saw the open passage and the drawn weapons.
“Dominic! What the hell is going on?” Anthony demanded, his voice thick with alarm. “The security team said there were gunshots—”
“Nobody fired a shot, Anthony,” Dominic said calmly, turning slowly to face his younger brother. His eyes were like twin blades. “Tell me, who had the keys to the eastern foundation tunnels?”
Anthony’s eyes flickered toward the secret door, then to the rose in Dominic’s hand. For a fraction of a second, his polished mask slipped, revealing a flash of sheer panic before he quickly smoothed it away.
“Only Marcus and I have master access,” Anthony replied smoothly. “Dominic, you’re unwell. You nearly died of carbon monoxide poisoning eight hours ago. You shouldn't be wandering around this mausoleum chasing phantoms.”
“Maria saw Elena three weeks ago, Anthony,” Dominic said coldly.
Anthony scoffed, though the sound was hollow. “Maria is eighty years old and senile! Elena is dead. We buried her four years ago after her heart gave out in this exact spot! Are you going to let a stroke-ridden housekeeper and an agency nurse drive you into a paranoid psychosis?”
Anthony turned his glare toward me, dripping with venom. “Miss Bennett, your shift ended at seven. I specifically ordered security to escort you out. Why are you still poisoning my brother’s mind with conspiracies?”
“I’m not poisoning anyone,” I shot back evenly, crossing my arms. “Unlike whoever modified that flue damper. As a medical professional, Mr. Caruso was five minutes away from irreversible brain death last night. You don't call that a conspiracy, Anthony? I call it attempted homicide.”
Anthony stepped closer, his jaw flexing. “Mind your tongue, nurse. You have no idea whose family you’re meddling with.”
“That’s enough, Anthony,” Dominic’s voice cut through the air like a guillotine.
Dominic stepped between us, towering over his brother. The physical resemblance between them was unmistakable, but where Anthony was sharp and theatrical, Dominic was pure, unadulterated predator.
“Claire stays,” Dominic stated with lethal finality. “Her contract is extended indefinitely. She reports directly to me, not to you, not to the agency. Marcus, prepare the guest suite adjoining my master bedroom for her.”
Anthony’s eyes widened with outrage. “You’re putting an outsider in the inner sanctum? Have you lost your mind?”
“I survived last night because of her instincts, not yours,” Dominic said, his gaze unwavering. “Now get out. And if I find out who unlocked that lower tunnel, Anthony… family or not, they won't leave this estate breathing.”
Anthony swallowed hard, nodded curtly, and turned on his heel, storming down the corridor.
When the hallway fell quiet again, Dominic looked down at the blood on his hand where the rose thorn had cut him. He didn't wipe it away. He looked at me, his eyes dark with an unreadable storm.
“You asked for triple your salary, Claire,” he murmured.
“I did.”
May you like
“I’ll quintuple it,” Dominic said softly. “Because by sundown, whoever tried to kill me will realize you’re the reason I’m still breathing. And they will come for you next.”
***
