Chapter 2 - The Sound in the Walls and the Narrow Escape
Lorenzo’s hand clamped over Beatrice’s mouth before another breath could escape
her lips.
In the pitch-black passage, the only sound was the muffled rush of blood
pounding in their ears. Lorenzo pulled her flush against his chest, shielding
her large frame behind his broader silhouette as he drew a custom-machined Sig
Sauer from his underarm holster.
Below the grate, heavy footsteps strode rapidly toward the study’s concealed
access panel.
“Is there an entrance to the walls in here?” Isabella’s voice rose, sharp with
sudden paranoia.
“There's an old inspection hatch behind the liquor cabinet,” Vincent answered,
the metallic slide of a Glock racking echoing through the vent. “If that fat
maid lied about being in the east wing, I’ll put a bullet through her skull
myself.”
Beatrice trembled violently against Lorenzo’s chest. Her eyes were wide with
terror, but she didn't struggle. She leaned into him, trusting him completely.
Lorenzo leaned down until his lips brushed her ear. “Step where I step. Breathe
when I breathe.”
He turned her slowly, guiding her away from the grate. The passage was barely
three feet wide, built in the 1920s for silent utility lines, but Lorenzo moved
with silent predatory precision. Every time Beatrice’s hip grazed a crossbeam,
Lorenzo placed his hand on her waist, guiding her gently around the protruding
timber.
Behind them, the inspection door below screeched open.
A bright beam of a tactical flashlight cut through the floorboards behind their
heels.
“Nothing here,” Vincent’s voice echoed up the shaft. “Just old dust and rat
traps.”
“Check the corner,” Isabella demanded. “If anyone overheard us, Vinnie, we're
dead before sunrise.”
Lorenzo pulled Beatrice around a tight turn into the southern chimney chase. He
pressed his back to the brick, holding Beatrice securely in front of him. The
space was so confined their bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee.
Lorenzo could smell the lavender soap on her skin, clean and sweet, entirely
distinct from the expensive, suffocating French perfume Isabella wore.
Beatrice looked up at him in the dark. Her breath was warm against his
collarbone.
Lorenzo met her gaze, his expression steady, completely unbothered by the
danger. He raised his free hand and gently wiped away the tear track running
down her cheek.
Her eyes softened, a deep blush rising to her neck despite the life-or-death
tension.
Below, the hatch slammed shut.
“Just the storm settling the house,” Vincent muttered as his footsteps
retreated. “Let’s go upstairs. We have to be ready for his morning arrival.”
Lorenzo waited two full minutes until the study lights clicked off.
He let out a slow, controlled breath and looked down at Beatrice.
“Come,” Lorenzo whispered. “We’re going down to the sub-cellar. My men will be
at the gate in ten minutes.”
Beatrice nodded, stepping carefully through the descent. But as they reached the
iron ladder leading down to the basement, her foot slipped on a patch of wet
mortar.
She gasped, tumbling sideways.
Lorenzo lunged forward, catching her around the waist with both arms, taking the
full brunt of her weight against his chest and slamming his shoulder into the
stone foundation to keep her from falling.
Beatrice let out a stifled cry of pain as her hand scraped against a rusty iron
conduit.
Lorenzo steadied her, his arm locked around her waist. “I've got you. Beatrice,
look at me. Are you hurt?”
She cradled her right hand, where a deep gash leaked crimson across her palm.
“I’m fine, Mr. Falcone,” she whispered, trying to pull away out of habit. “I’m
sorry... I’m too heavy... I almost pulled you down.”
Lorenzo gripped her uninjured wrist, stopping her from pulling back.
“Stop apologizing for your body, Beatrice,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping
into a dark, commanding baritone. “You just saved my life. Your weight didn't
pull me down—your courage kept me alive. Now let’s get this cleaned before it
gets infected.”
He led her into the reinforced sub-cellar vault, locking the heavy steel door
behind them.
As Lorenzo reached for the first-aid kit on the workbench, the estate's internal
security monitor mounted on the wall suddenly flared to life.
On the screen, four black tactical vans without license plates were rolling
through the estate's main gates—not his Fort Lauderdale crew, but unmarked
vehicles bearing the insignia of the Rossi syndicate's hit squad.
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Vincent hadn't just planned to poison Lorenzo.
He had invited an entire army of rival assassins into the Falcone compound.
