Chapter 8
Cassandro placed his palms against the rough surface of the third stone. He applied a steady, forceful pressure. A deep, mechanical click echoed from within the masonry, followed by the heavy, grinding sound of gears turning.
The nearly invisible seam split apart. A large section of the stone wall slowly pivoted inward, revealing a dark, descending stairwell hidden beneath the bright, sunlit pool terrace. A rush of stale, damp air spilled out from the darkness, chilling the warm summer afternoon.
Mrs. Keller let out a horrified gasp, pulling Audrey tightly against her professional estate clothing to shield the three-year-old from the dark abyss.
"Boss, let us go first," the lead capo said, stepping forward with his hand resting on his holstered weapon. "It could be rigged."
"No," Cassandro commanded softly. "Nobody steps foot down those stairs until I say so. This is my house. These are my ghosts."
"Daddy, it's dark," Audrey whimpered, hiding her face against the nanny's shoulder.
Cassandro turned, his expression softening for a fraction of a second as he looked at his daughter. "Mrs. Keller. Take Audrey into the sunroom. Lock the door. Do not let anyone inside until I return."
"Yes, Mr. Moretti," Mrs. Keller nodded frantically. "Come along, Audrey. Let's go look at the flowers."
"Is Mommy in the dark?" Audrey asked, her bright blue eyes looking up at her father.
"I am going to bring her back into the light," Cassandro promised, his voice a low, comforting rumble.
He watched Mrs. Keller hurry the child into the safety of the mansion before turning his attention back to the gaping hole in his terrace. He looked at Vivienne, who was weeping uncontrollably on the ground, and Damian, who was bleeding in the grip of the capos.
"If she is dead," Cassandro said, his words dropping like heavy stones, "I will ensure neither of you ever see the sun again."
Without waiting for a response, Cassandro stepped over the threshold, his tall, masculine frame disappearing into the suffocating darkness of the hidden stairwell. The contrast between the bright, cinematic video colors of the summer patio and the pitch-black void of the secret passage was jarring.
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As he descended the concrete stairs, the sounds of the terrace faded away, replaced by the rhythmic echoing of his polished leather shoes. The air grew colder, smelling faintly of mildew and old earth. His heart pounded against his ribs, a violent, anxious rhythm that betrayed the calm, intimidating exterior he presented to the world.
He reached the bottom of the stairs. A single, dim incandescent bulb flickered overhead, casting long, sharp shadows across the damp walls. In front of him stood a heavy steel door, secured from the outside with three massive deadbolts.
