Chapter 4 - The Shadow in the Library
By 2:00 PM on the second day, the truce established in the greenhouse had held, much to the quiet astonishment of the household staff.
Mrs. Higgins had stopped crossing herself every time Avery walked past her in the hallway, and Victor had even nodded respectfully when Avery brought out a tray of iced tea and homemade chocolate chip cookies for the security detail stationed by the north gate.
Mia and the triplets had formed an uneasy alliance centered around building an elaborate fortress out of couch cushions in the third-floor playroom, complete with a pulley system made of clothesline and empty gift baskets to haul snacks up to the second tier.
Avery sat at the oak desk in the third-floor study, reviewing a stack of grocery receipts and tutor schedules, when a soft knock sounded at the door.
“Come in,” she called out without looking up.
The door creaked open.
It wasn't one of the boys. It wasn't Mrs. Higgins.
It was Enzo.
The six-year-old stood in the doorway, clutching his favorite stuffed rabbit—the one identical in spirit to Mia’s—against his chest. He looked small, fragile, and utterly lost in the oversized sweater Dante had bought him last week.
Avery laid down her pen immediately.
“Hey, Enzo,” she said softly, keeping her voice level and unthreatening. “Everything okay in the fortress?”
Enzo didn't answer right away. He shuffled across the hardwood floor, his sneakers making a soft squeaking sound, and stopped about three feet from her desk. He looked down at his shoes, then up at Avery through his dark, thick eyelashes.
“Can I ask you a question?” he whispered.
“You can ask me anything, Enzo. That’s what I’m here for.”
“Are you leaving tomorrow?”
The question hit Avery right in the solar plexus. She had been so focused on surviving the tactical maneuvers, balancing the forty-two dollars in her head, and keeping the peace that she had almost forgotten the arbitrary clock ticking in the background.
Forty-eight hours.
Tomorrow morning at 10:00 AM, her time was up.
“Why do you ask that?” Avery kept her voice carefully neutral.
“Because all the other ones left on the second day,” Enzo said, his lower lip trembling ever so slightly—the only sign of the earthquake happening inside him. “They packed their bags in the morning, and by lunchtime their cars were gone down the driveway. Dad didn't even come out of his office to say goodbye to the last one.”
Avery stood up from her chair, walked around the desk, and knelt down so she was at eye level with the little boy. She reached out and gently touched his shoulder.
“Enzo, look at me.”
He raised his head, his dark eyes shining with unshed tears that broke her heart.
“I’m not like the others,” Avery said firmly, every word chosen with absolute conviction. “I don't run away when things get messy. And even if my forty-eight hours are up tomorrow morning, I’m not packing my bags unless your father personally drags me out by my ankles.”
Enzo let out a long, shaky breath, the tension leaving his small shoulders.
“Promise?” he whispered, holding out his pinky finger.
Avery smiled, hooking her pinky around his tiny one. “I promise. Cross my heart and hope to eat broccoli.”
A faint, watery giggle escaped Enzo’s lips.
“Broccoli is gross,” he agreed solemnly.
“We are in total agreement.” Avery stood up, brushing off her jeans. “Now, since you’re down here, do you want to help me do something slightly illegal and completely unauthorized by your father?”
Enzo’s eyes lit up with sudden, conspiratorial joy. “What kind of illegal?”
“Your father has a private study on the second floor. More importantly, he has a locked filing cabinet in the corner of that study that I happen to know contains the blueprints of this entire estate—including a secret service tunnel that runs from the basement to the old boathouse by the river.”
Enzo gasped. “A secret tunnel? Dad said those weren't real!”
“Your father tells you legends are fake so you don't go exploring them in your pajamas,” Avery said with a grin. “Grab a flashlight. We’re going spelunking.”
Ten minutes later, Avery and Enzo were creeping down the dimly lit second-floor hallway like two professional cat burglars.
The Mancini estate was built in 1912 by an eccentric railroad baron who had smuggled art out of Europe during the First World War, which meant the house was riddled with architectural oddities—false panels, dumbwaiters big enough to hold a grown man, and a network of service corridors hidden behind the wainscoting.
Avery had discovered the entrance to the service corridor earlier that morning while looking for extra cleaning supplies behind the butler’s pantry.
She pressed a concealed brass spring in the wall paneling.
Click.
A heavy oak door swung inward silently, revealing a narrow, stone-lined stairwell plunging downward into the gloom, illuminated only by the faint amber glow of emergency exit lights.
“Whoa,” Enzo whispered, sweeping his flashlight beam across the cobwebbed stone walls. “It’s real.”
“Of course it’s real. Never trust a man who owns a house this big without at least three secret escape routes.”
They crept down the stone steps, their footsteps muffled by thick layers of dust and time. The air down here smelled cool, damp, and smelled faintly of old iron and damp earth.
At the bottom of the stairs, a heavy iron-banded door stood slightly ajar.
Avery pushed it open with her fingertips.
They had entered the basement archives—a massive underground room lined with rows of steel shelving units holding leather-bound ledgers, shipping manifests, and old photo albums dating back decades.
“Look for a red binder labeled Property Development & Architectural Surveys 1912-1985,” Avery instructed, shining her own flashlight across the shelves.
Enzo scurried down the aisle like an enthusiastic puppy, his flashlight beam darting back and forth across the spines of the books.
“Found it!” he hissed triumphantly, pulling a thick, dust-covered red binder off the top shelf.
He carried it over to a heavy wooden table in the center of the room, climbing onto a stool so he could open it. Avery stood beside him, shining her light on the yellowed parchment pages.
Inside were hand-drawn blueprints, faded blueprints of the foundations, and old black-and-white photographs of the estate during its construction.
As Avery turned a page, a loose photograph slipped out from between two folded maps and fluttered down onto the dusty floorboards.
Avery bent down and picked it up.
It was an old photograph, printed on glossy paper that had curled slightly at the edges.
It showed Dante Mancini standing on the front steps of the mansion, looking younger—maybe in his late twenties—with his arm around a stunning woman with long dark hair and laughing dark eyes. Between them stood a toddler with a shock of black curls.
And standing slightly off to the side, leaning against one of the stone pillars with a cold, unreadable smile, was a man Avery had never seen before in any of the agency files or news clippings.
A man with a jagged scar running across his throat.
Avery turned the photograph over in her hand.
On the back, written in bold black ink in Dante’s unmistakable handwriting, were three words:
HE IS COMING BACK.
The date stamped below the handwriting was from six weeks ago.
Suddenly, the heavy iron door at the top of the stone stairs creaked open.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed on the stone steps above them.
“Enzo,” Avery whispered sharply, her heart skipping a beat as she grabbed the boy’s hand. “Hide behind the shelving unit. Now.”
May you like
Before Enzo could move, a deep, cold voice echoed down the stairwell, freezing them both in their tracks.
“I told you months ago, Avery,” Dante’s voice rang out, flat, dangerous, and utterly devoid of warmth. “Curiosity in this house is a very dangerous habit.”
