Chapter 1 - The Blood on the Cellar Door
The stairs leading down to the wine cellar were cold, narrow, and made of unpolished stone that contrasted sharply with the Italian marble of the upper floors. Beatrice threw her weight against the heavy iron door at the bottom of the flight, her bruised shoulder screaming in protest. The metal was freezing to the touch, locked tight from the outside by a heavy brass bolt.
Inside, the sound was faint, but it tore at Beatrice’s soul: a desperate, rattling wheeze, like a small bird trapped in a box.
“Lily!” Beatrice cried, pressing her face against the small, iron-grated window at the top of the door. “Lily, baby, can you hear me? It’s Beatrice. I’m right here!”
A choked, ragged gasp answered her. “Bea… Bea, it’s dark. I can’t… I can’t find the air.”
“Listen to my voice, sweetheart,” Beatrice sobbed, her fingers clawing at the stone casing of the door, ignoring the way her fingernails tore against the mortar. “Don’t look at the dark. Just listen to me. Breathe in when I count, okay? One… two… try to hold it, baby. Just a little bit.”
From the top of the stairs, the sharp, rhythmic click of heels signaled the arrival of the nightmare. Victoria Kensington stepped onto the landing, holding a velvet jewelry box in one hand and a half-empty glass of champagne in the other. Her platinum hair was perfectly smooth, her hand-painted smile completely intact despite the chaos.
“Still here, Beatrice?” Victoria sighed, taking a delicate sip from her glass. “I thought I made myself clear. You’ve been dismissed. Your presence is no longer required on this property. Or in this city, if you value your mother’s prescription coverage.”
Beatrice turned, her back pressed against the iron door, her large frame shielding the grated window from Victoria’s sight. Her bleeding cheek had stained the white collar of her uniform, and her purple fingers hung awkwardly at her side. “Give me the key, Victoria.”
Victoria blinked, amused. “Pardon me? Did you just use my first name?”
“Give me the damn key!” Beatrice roared, the submissive, apologetic maid dying in that dark hallway, replaced by something ancient and fierce. “She’s six years old! She’s suffocating! If you leave her in there, you’re going to kill her!”
“She’s having a tantrum,” Victoria said coldly, walking down the stairs one step at a time, her eyes narrowing into slits. “And you are overstepping the boundaries of your social class. Leo is in Miami. The security team has been dismissed for the day under my authority as his future wife. Whatever happens in this cellar stays in this cellar until I decide otherwise. Now, step away from the door before I have my father’s associates handle you permanently.”
Victoria reached the bottom of the stairs, her expensive perfume warring with the damp scent of the stone. She raised her hand, intending to slap Beatrice’s bleeding cheek once more, to remind the heavy, broken maid of her place.
But Beatrice didn't flinch this time.
Before Victoria’s palm could connect, Beatrice reached out with her uninjured hand, grabbed Victoria’s slender wrist, and twisted it with the raw, heavy strength born of years of lifting laundry crates and scrubbing floors. The champagne glass shattered against the stone floor, splattering golden liquid over Victoria’s designer shoes.
“Don’t,” Beatrice whispered, her face inches from Victoria’s. “Touch me. Again.”
Victoria gasped in genuine shock, her eyes widening as she realized that the invisible, oversized woman she had mocked for weeks was suddenly a wall she couldn't move.
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Suddenly, the heavy heavy oak doors at the top of the stairs didn't just open—they tore off their hinges with a deafening crash that shook the dust from the stone ceiling. The cold wind of a Chicago autumn swept down the stairwell, accompanied by the heavy, measured tread of a man who brought the winter with him.
Leo Rossi had come home early.
