Chapter 2 - The Hidden Compartment
The library on the third floor of the Romano estate was an ancient, wood-paneled sanctuary filled with first-edition classics, leather chesterfields, and floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows overlooking Lake Michigan. Outside, a late autumn storm was brewing, throwing fierce gusts of wind against the heavy glass pane. I engaged the heavy brass deadbolt on the double mahogany doors just as Aleandro had instructed, leaning my back against the carved wood until my breathing slowed down.
Ivy was already sitting on the Persian rug by the dormant marble fireplace, humming a tune as she twisted the manual focus ring back and forth.
""Ivy, sweetheart,"" I said, dropping to my knees beside her. ""Where did you find Daddy’s camera? Tell Mommy the truth.""
She looked up with wide, innocent hazel eyes—the exact shade of Noah’s. ""In the basement storage trunk. The big green one with the rusty latches where you put the winter coats.""
My heart hammered against my ribs. When we moved into the estate's carriage house six months ago after I took the housekeeping job, I had unpacked only the essentials. Noah’s old duffel bag had been jammed into the bottom of that cedar trunk. But Noah had died three years ago downtown, and the police explicitly stated they searched the entire perimeter of the hotel and found no electronics or bags. How had it ended up in our luggage?
I gently took the camera from her hands. It was an analog 35mm rangefinder, a mechanical marvel built in the late 1970s that Noah had purchased at a flea market during our college years. He always claimed that digital files could be corrupted or hacked, but physical negatives were permanent truth.
I turned the camera over in my hands. The black paint on the corners was worn down to dull, golden brass. There was a deep scuff along the baseplate—the kind of mark left by a violent impact. My hands shook as I inspected the bottom latch. That was when I noticed something wrong. The release switch to pop open the film door was stuck.
I took a small metal hairpin from my updo and gently pried at the release hinge. The back of the camera sprang open with a soft metallic click.
There was no standard roll of 35mm film inside.
Instead, the film compartment had been custom-hollowed out. The interior winding spool had been removed and replaced with a high-density, black metallic micro-drive, held in place with electrical tape, alongside a tiny, handwritten slip of paper folded into a tight square.
My fingers were trembling so violently I could barely unfold the paper. In Noah’s frantic, rushed handwriting were four scribbled lines:
October 14th - The Drake Penthouse.
Victor Santo is selling the Romano shipping manifests to the Rossi syndicate.
They know I saw the exchange. If I don't make it home, give this drive directly to Aleandro. Only Aleandro. Trust no badges.
A choked gasp escaped my throat. Tears blurred my vision as I clutched the note against my chest. Noah had been hired to photograph an architectural gala at the hotel that fateful night. He hadn't stumbled into an open window; he had stumbled into high treason between Chicago’s two most dangerous rival families.
Before I could process the sheer magnitude of what I was holding, the heavy brass door handle rattled violently from the outside.
""Grace?"" a muffled voice called through the thick oak. It wasn't Aleandro. It was smooth, venomous, and entirely too familiar. ""Open the door, Grace. We need to clear up this misunderstanding before Aleandro comes upstairs and things get unnecessarily messy for you and your pretty little girl.""
Victor Santo was outside.
""Go hide under the desk, Ivy,"" I whispered, panic constricting my throat. ""Right now, baby. Don't make a sound.""
May you like
Ivy saw the terror in my eyes and scurried beneath the massive mahogany executive desk, pulling the velvet drapery around herself.
The rattling stopped, followed by the sickening sound of metal scraping against metal inside the keyhole. Victor wasn't knocking anymore. He was picking the lock.
