Chapter 4
The sheer weight of the gilded frame resisted for a fraction of a second before Finnian hoisted it upward. The canvas scraped against the ivory-paneled wall, revealing what had been meticulously hidden from the entire household.
Concealed directly behind the portrait was a rectangular, metal ventilation grille. It was old, built seamlessly into the architecture of the mansion, designed to pull air from the lower levels.
But it wasn't empty.
Curled tightly around the rusted metal slots of the grille were human fingers. They were pale, trembling, and desperately thin. As the bright light of the ballroom hit the dark vent, the fingers flinched, pulling back slightly into the absolute darkness beyond the wall.
A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the nearest guests. The sixty donors and relatives, who had just minutes ago laughed at a coup, were now staring at the undeniable proof of a captive hidden within the very walls of the estate.
Marcellus, who had just managed to wipe the blinding foam from his eyes, froze completely. The furious command died on his lips. His expensive formal suit was stained white, but his face drained of all color, turning a sickly shade of ash.
Aveline kept supporting Finnian’s arm, her expressive, frightened eyes fixed entirely on those moving fingers. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She looked up at Finnian, waiting for his reaction.
"Are you going to tell me what is living inside my walls, Marcellus?" Finnian asked.
His deep, low voice had lost any trace of warmth. It was arctic, vibrating with a lethal, suppressed fury that terrified everyone in the room. He didn't look at his cousin; his observant eyes remained locked on the pale fingers clinging to the grille.
"I... I don't know what that is," Marcellus stammered, stepping backward, his polished shoes slipping slightly on the foam-covered marble. "The house is old, Finnian. It could be a squatter. A rat."
"Do you believe rats possess human hands?" Finnian inquired softly, tilting his head slightly.
He reached forward, his tattooed fingers gently touching the cold metal of the grille. "Who is in there?" he asked, his voice dropping to a gentle, coaxing register.
A ragged, weak voice filtered through the slots. It was barely a whisper, broken by years of isolation and dust.
"Finnian?"
The single word struck the mafia boss like a physical blow. The broad, powerful shoulders went completely rigid beneath his tailored dark suit. He knew that voice. He had spent two years mourning that voice.
"Lara?" Finnian breathed, the name tearing from his throat.
May you like
"You told me she was dead," Aveline whispered, her eyes wide with shock as she looked from the vent to the boss.
"Did I not bury an empty casket because you told me the car burned completely, Marcellus?" Finnian asked, turning his head slowly toward his older cousin. The measured pause between his words carried the weight of a death sentence. "Did you not present me with her ashes?"
