Chapter 2 - Through the Shadows of the Estate
The ventilation tunnel was a narrow artery of brick and stone, constructed a century ago when the mansion belonged to a Gilded Age industrialist. Water dripped from the ceiling, splashing softly against the toes of my work boots.
Lily crawled ahead of me, remarkably agile and silent, treating the ordeal like an intense game of hide-and-seek. "Quiet like mice, right Mommy?" she whispered back over her shoulder.
"Just like mice, baby," I whispered back, keeping one hand on her foot and using my other hand to support Matteo, who was crawling behind me, dragging his left leg. His breathing was heavy, ragged, and wet—a clear sign that blood was beginning to pool near his pleural cavity.
"Russo," I called softly, turning my head. "Stay conscious. Talk to me. Tell me about Bianca."
"Bianca... was always smarter than our brothers," Matteo gritted out, his forehead slick with cold sweat in the dim beam of my phone's flashlight. "When our father died... everyone assumed I would take the crown because I was the eldest son. I brought discipline. I brought corporate structure. I moved the family away from street violence and into real estate, tech, and international shipping."
He paused, leaning his head against the damp brick wall to catch his breath. "I thought Bianca was content managing our charitable foundations. I gave her everything she asked for. Luxury, security, respect."
"She didn't want respect," I said softly, piecing together the audio files we had heard. "She wanted absolute power. In your organization, moving into legal markets means less direct control for captains who thrive on intimidation. She offered them the old ways back."
"My father used to say... a enemy outside your house is a threat, but an enemy inside your bloodline is a fatal disease," Matteo muttered, his voice dipping lower. "Your husband... Thomas... he saw it before I did. He was monitoring the internal comms for months."
"Why didn't he come to you?" I asked, a pang of grief squeezing my heart. "Why didn't Thomas just bring you the tapes?"
Matteo looked up at me, his dark gray eyes piercing through the gloom. "Because three years ago, Claire... I wouldn't have believed a word from a maintenance man over my own sister. I would have had him eliminated for trying to sow discord in my family."
The harsh truth of his words hung in the damp tunnel air. Thomas knew that. He had been building a case so airtight, so undeniable, that even a ruthless crime boss couldn't ignore it. But Bianca had found him first.
We reached the end of the shaft. A heavy copper grate blocked the exit, choked with thick ivy and rotting leaves.
I leaned my weight against the grate, pushing with all my strength. It didn't budge. The iron hinges were rusted shut.
"Let me," Matteo whispered. He crawled forward, wedged his boot against the frame, and slammed his leg out with every remaining ounce of strength in his body.
The rust snapped with a sharp crack. The copper grate swung open, revealing the cold, rain-slicked floor of the estate’s abandoned glass greenhouse.
Night air rushed into the tunnel—cold, sweet, and wet.
Suddenly, a flashlight beam swung through the frosted glass of the greenhouse doors forty feet away. Footsteps were approaching along the gravel path outside.
"They've surrounded the perimeter," Matteo growled, pulling his knife from his boot. "There are at least twenty men on night detail."
"There’s a delivery van parked behind the potting shed," I said, remembering the estate’s daily schedule. "The organic produce driver leaves his keys under the floor mat every Tuesday night so the morning staff can unpack early."
Lily looked up at the glass roof, where rain was drumming heavily. She reached into her little pink pocket, pulled out a second cartoon bandage, and handed it to Matteo.
"For your leg," she said simply. "So you don't leak."
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Matteo stared at the tiny piece of adhesive plastic in his large, blood-stained palm. The iron-willed Don of New York swallowed hard, his throat tight. He carefully peeled the backing and stuck the bright yellow duck bandage onto his torn trousers over his wound.
"Thank you, Lily," he said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Now... let's go steal a truck."
