Chapter 6 - BENEATH THE CHAPEL
Blackwood’s chapel sat beyond the winter garden, connected to the main house by a covered stone walkway.
It was small, older than the mansion, and colder than any church had a right to be.
The Morettis had buried family members there for a century.
I had cleaned it exactly twice.
Both times with Mrs. Garcia beside me and very clear instructions not to touch the locked iron gate behind the altar.
Tonight the gate was open.
Luca stood inside with Tomas and two men I did not know.
He heard my boots on the stone before he saw me.
His shoulders tightened.
“Claire.”
I raised both hands.
“I know.”
“You were told—”
“I know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Because every time someone tells me to stay somewhere safe, the safe place turns out to contain a sedative, a traitor, or an attempted murder.”
Tomas looked away.
Luca rubbed his forehead.
“You are exhausting.”
“I’ve had excellent performance reviews.”
“You’re staying by the door.”
“That sounds reasonable.”
“Do not move.”
“That sounds less reasonable.”
He gave me a look.
I stayed by the door.
For almost a full minute.
The crypt beneath the chapel was reached by a narrow staircase behind the iron gate. Luca and Tomas descended first with flashlights.
I followed at a respectful distance that Luca would later describe as not respectful at all.
The air smelled of stone, dust, and old candle wax.
At the bottom, names were carved into marble walls.
Moretti.
Moretti.
Moretti.
Generations of people who had spent enough money and blood making the name matter that even death seemed organized around it.
Luca stopped beside his mother’s crypt.
For a second he touched the marble.
Then he moved on.
Sarah had said the ledger was under the chapel.
Not inside the crypt.
Tomas found the first clue.
A scratch in the stone floor behind the old altar support.
We moved the small wooden kneeler.
Beneath it was an iron ring.
Luca pulled.
A square section of stone lifted.
Cold air rose from below.
“Tunnel,” Tomas said.
“Old smuggling route,” Luca answered. “My grandfather used it during Prohibition.”
I stared at him.
“Your family had a crime tunnel and nobody thought to mention it during the security lockdown?”
“It was sealed.”
“Clearly with tremendous success.”
He ignored me.
The ladder descended into darkness.
Tomas went first.
Then Luca.
Then, despite a look that should have turned me to salt, me.
The tunnel was narrow enough that Luca’s shoulders nearly touched both walls.
Old electrical wire ran along the ceiling. Dust covered the ground except for one path of recent footprints.
And blood.
A dark drop on the stone.
Then another.
Luca crouched.
“Fresh.”
We followed it.
Thirty feet later, the tunnel opened into a storage chamber.
A man lay against the wall.
Dominic Carbone.
His shirt was soaked dark at the shoulder and side.
His face looked gray.
Tomas rushed to him.
“Dom.”
Dominic’s eyes opened.
He saw Luca.
Then me.
“Dawson.”
“That seems unfair,” I said. “We’ve barely met.”
He made a sound that might have been a laugh and immediately regretted it.
Luca knelt.
“Who shot you?”
“Keene.”
Luca and Tomas exchanged a look.
“Vincent?” Luca asked.
Dominic nodded.
“He knows Sarah hid something here.”
“Where?”
Dominic lifted a trembling hand toward the far wall.
“Loose stone. Behind Saint Michael.”
Then his eyes rolled back.
Tomas caught him.
“Get Warren.”
One of the guards ran.
Luca moved to the wall Dominic indicated.
A small carved plaque of Saint Michael hung over a section of stone.
Behind it, one block shifted when pressed.
Inside was a leather ledger wrapped in plastic.
Luca took it out.
The first page contained account numbers.
The second contained signatures.
The third contained names.
Silvio Bellini.
Vincent Moretti.
Adrian Vale.
Mark Keene.
And a woman I had never heard of.
Marie Kessler.
I stared.
The name tugged at something.
Not memory exactly.
A sound.
A nurse whispering over a chart.
Luca noticed.
“What?”
“Marie Kessler.”
“You know her?”
“I don’t know.”
“That means yes.”
“It means the name feels familiar.”
I closed my eyes.
Mercy Ridge.
Room 612.
Private admission.
No name on the whiteboard.
But one night, when I changed the bedding, the woman had woken up confused.
She had grabbed my wrist.
My name is Marie.
Tell them I’m not crazy.
I opened my eyes.
“Oh my God.”
Luca stepped closer.
“What?”
“She was the patient.”
“Your patient?”
“The woman who died at Mercy Ridge.”
His face changed.
I pointed at the ledger.
“She told me her name was Marie. Administration said she was delirious.”
Tomas looked at the book.
“Who was she?”
Luca flipped pages.
There.
Marie Kessler — audit manager, Bellini Development.
I felt sick.
“She knew.”
Luca’s voice was flat.
“She was auditing the accounts.”
“And she died after someone changed her medication.”
“Dr. Vale signed the orders.”
The tunnel seemed to get smaller around us.
Five years ago, I had believed one patient died because a hospital covered a mistake.
Now I understood something much worse.
It had not been a mistake.
Marie Kessler had found the same stolen money Sarah found.
Sarah died in a car crash.
Marie died in a hospital.
And the same doctor touched both files.
I had not lost my career because I was unlucky.
Someone had needed me quiet.
A groan came from behind us.
Dominic was conscious again.
He looked at me.
“That’s why they know you.”
I crouched beside him.
“What?”
“You filed the report.”
My mouth went dry.
“How do you know that?”
“I found it.”
“When?”
“After Sarah died. I traced Vale. Found Mercy Ridge. Your complaint was buried in an internal file.”
Luca’s gaze snapped to Dominic.
“You knew about Claire?”
“Name only. Didn’t know she worked here until yesterday.”
I stared at him.
“Then why call me?”
“Saw you on backup camera with Sarah’s phone. Recognized your name on staff list.”
His breathing hitched.
“Thought… either God has sense of humor… or Vincent’s luck finally ran out.”
Dr. Warren arrived with a medical team.
They stabilized Dominic while we climbed back upstairs.
Before they carried him away, he grabbed Luca’s sleeve.
“One more thing.”
Luca leaned closer.
“Sarah’s crash.”
“What about it?”
“Brake line.”
Luca went absolutely still.
Dominic swallowed.
“Keene paid mechanic. I found transfer after funeral. Couldn’t prove who ordered it until ledger.”
Luca looked toward the book in Tomas’s hands.
Vincent Moretti’s name sat beside the payment.
Sarah had been right.
Her death was murder.
Luca walked out of the chapel alone.
I followed.
Not close.
Not at first.
He crossed the winter garden and stopped beside the frozen fountain.
His hands braced on the stone edge.
Snow had started falling, light and dry.
I stood ten feet away.
“You don’t have to stay,” he said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you?”
“Because you look like you shouldn’t be alone.”
He laughed once.
Bitter.
“I left her alone.”
I didn’t answer.
“She told me she was afraid.”
Snow gathered in his dark curls.
“I told her she was exhausted. I told her to listen to the doctors. Vincent said she was becoming paranoid. Vale said she needed sleep. Vanessa said Sarah was drinking more than I knew.”
His voice broke on the last word.
“I believed all of them.”
“You didn’t kill her.”
“No. I just made it easier.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It is to a dead woman.”
I stepped closer.
“My mother used to say guilt is arrogant.”
He looked at me.
“That’s comforting.”
“She meant sometimes we make ourselves the center of things because it feels better than admitting we couldn’t control them.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Your mother sounds difficult.”
“She raised me.”
“That explains a lot.”
I smiled faintly.
Then I looked at his right hand.
His knuckles were split where he had punched the bathroom wall earlier.
“You’re bleeding.”
“So are you.”
“Mine has a bandage.”
He looked at his hand as if noticing it for the first time.
I took a clean handkerchief from my pocket.
Housemaids carry strange things.
“Give me your hand.”
“No.”
I raised an eyebrow.
Mrs. Garcia had been right.
He hated that word.
“Fine. Keep bleeding on your expensive coat.”
He held out his hand.
I wrapped the cloth around his knuckles.
His fingers were warm despite the snow.
Tattoo ink disappeared beneath the white fabric.
He watched me work.
“You should hate this family.”
“I don’t know your whole family.”
“You know enough.”
“I know Lily.”
His expression softened.
“And Mrs. Garcia.”
“That woman terrifies everyone.”
“She should.”
“And me?”
The question came too quietly.
I looked up.
He stood close now.
Closer than I had realized.
Snow touched his eyelashes and melted.
“You?” I said.
“Yes.”
I could have said many things.
Boss.
Dangerous.
Stubborn.
Rich enough to consider twelve-thousand-dollar chairs normal.
Instead I said, “I haven’t decided.”
His eyes dropped to my mouth.
My breath caught.
For one second, the world narrowed to cold air and warm fingers and the impossible fact that Luca Moretti was looking at me as if I were not wearing a borrowed sweater and a bruised face.
He leaned slightly closer.
The back door opened.
“Daddy!”
We jumped apart so quickly it would have been funny if my heart had not nearly broken a rib.
Lily ran across the covered walkway in boots and a pink coat.
Mrs. Garcia followed at a slower pace, wearing the expression of a woman who had noticed everything.
Lily reached us.
“Uncle Vincent is gone.”
Luca froze.
“What?”
“Tomas said he was in the blue room, but the guard is sleeping.”
Not sleeping.
I knew before anyone said it.
We ran.
The guard outside the blue room was unconscious.
The window stood open.
Vincent was gone.
On the table lay a single envelope.
Luca opened it.
Inside was a photograph.
Lily leaving school three days earlier.
On the back, in black ink, were six words.
May you like
Bring me the ledger by midnight.
Or next time, I take her.
