Chapter 4 - THE SERVICE ELEVATOR
The heavy double doors rattled as someone threw their weight against the outside frame.
“Sir! The smart locks are failing!” Vincent shouted, his fingers flying across his tablet as he tried to override the digital control panel. “She’s overriding the system from a master tablet in the hallway. We’ve got thirty seconds before these doors give way!”
I didn't hesitate. Years of navigating the ruthless corporate world had taught me one absolute truth: when you are trapped in a corner, you don't fight the wall. You find the hidden door.
“Grace! Lily! In here, now!” I yelled toward the hallway.
Grace scrambled into the master suite, dragging a terrified Lily behind her. I slammed the bedroom doors shut as best I could, throwing my own weight against them while Vincent wedged the heavy mahogany armchair beneath the brass handles.
“Mr. Moretti, the men downstairs—they’re coming up the main stairs!” Grace cried out, tears streaming down her face.
“They won't get through the west wing corridor easily,” Vincent said, pulling his weapon from his holster. He checked the magazine with a practiced click. “The reinforced security shutter at the end of the hall is military-grade. It’ll buy us five minutes.”
“Five minutes isn't enough,” I said, scanning the bedroom. “Where does the old service dumbwaiter go?”
Vincent blinked. “The service shaft? Sir, that hasn't been used since your grandfather’s time. It only runs from the basement kitchen to the pantry behind the study.”
“It’s not a dumbwaiter anymore,” I said, remembering an architectural blueprint I had signed off on when I bought the estate ten years ago. “It was converted into a reinforced emergency escape chute during the federal investigation into my father’s competitors. It drops straight down into the subterranean wine cellar.”
I rushed over to the antique bookcase in my private study attached to the bedroom. I pressed the third carved wooden rose on the oak paneling.
With a soft, pneumatic hiss, a section of the bookshelf swung inward, revealing a dark, vertical shaft just wide enough for a grown man to squeeze through. A steel ladder ran down into the pitch blackness.
“Vincent, you take Grace and Lily down first,” I commanded.
“Sir, I’m not leaving you here to— Quiet, Vincent. That’s an order. Get them to the subterranean garage. There’s an armored transport behind the wine racks. Use the biometric override on the driver’s side door. It’s keyed to my thumbprint.”
Vincent hesitated for a fraction of a second, then nodded grimly. He grabbed Grace by the shoulder. “Come on. Stay close to me.”
Lily looked up at me, her eight-year-old eyes wide with a terrifying maturity that no child should possess. “Mr. Moretti... you’re coming too, right?”
I knelt down, resting my hands on her small shoulders, forcing a calm smile onto my face that I didn't feel. “I’m right behind you, Lily. You be brave for your mom, okay? Count to fifty when you reach the bottom, and I’ll be there.”
She nodded tightly and let Vincent guide her into the dark metal shaft. Grace followed, her silent sobs echoing down the drop.
As soon as the steel hatch clicked shut behind them, a deafening explosion echoed from the hallway outside the master suite.
The security shutter had been blown.
Heavy boots thundered across the hardwood floor of the bedroom. Wood splintered as the armchair wedged beneath the double doors cracked under a massive impact.
I grabbed a heavy bronze paperweight off the study desk, backed into the secret opening, and pulled the hidden bookcase shut until it left just a two-inch crack for me to see through.
The double doors burst open.
Three men in tactical black gear, their faces obscured by ski masks, swarmed into the bedroom. In the lead was a tall, broad-shouldered man holding a suppressed automatic rifle.
Behind them walked Celeste.
Her hair was slightly disheveled, but her expression was pure, venomous triumph. She stepped over the splintered wood of the armchair, looking around the empty room with a frown.
“Search the closets! Check the bathroom!” she snapped at the men.
One of the mercenaries yanked open the wardrobe doors, swearing under his breath. “He’s gone, Ms. Vale. Window’s locked from the inside. There’s no sign of a struggle.”
Celeste walked slowly toward the bed. She looked down at the silver tray she had placed there earlier. Her eyes landed on the spot where my grandfather’s pocket watch used to sit.
“He couldn't have gone far,” she murmured, her voice dripping with venom. “The gates are locked. The perimeter alarms didn't trip. He’s still in the house.”
She walked toward the private study.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I gripped the bronze paperweight so hard my knuckles turned white. She was walking straight toward the bookcase. Straight toward the hidden panel.
She stopped right in front of the oak shelves, her hand hovering just inches from the carved wooden rose that controlled the mechanism.
She tilted her head, staring at the woodwork with a cold, analytical smile.
“Adrian, darling,” she called out into the quiet room, her voice echoing softly. “You can run through your little tunnels all you want. But you forgot one very important detail.”
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I held my breath.
“The wine cellar doesn't just have an armored car,” she whispered, leaning closer to the shelf. “It has a biometric lock on the exit gate, too. And your thumbprint... was deleted from the system yesterday.”
