Chapter 5 - The Velvet Trap
Upstairs in the great mansion, the clock struck three in the afternoon. Outside, the autumn rain began to fall in heavy, relentless sheets, rattling against the tall bay windows of the dining hall. The house was bathed in gray, gloomy light.
Victor was pacing before the roaring fireplace in the library, his phone pressed to his ear. ""I don't care what the port authority says! The shipping manifests belong to me now. Clear the docks in Red Hook by midnight or I’ll replace every union rep on the pier!""
He hung up, slamming the phone onto the desk so hard the screen cracked. He ran a hand through his slick hair, his face pale and tense. Controlling Anthony’s empire was proving far more difficult than stealing it. The dockworkers were refusing to unload cargo without Anthony’s direct phone authorization, and two major international banks had just frozen the corporate accounts pending legal verification.
The library door opened with a soft, respectful creak.
Maria entered, pushing a polished silver tea cart. She wore her crisp black maid’s uniform, her dark hair pinned back neatly. On the cart rested an antique silver teapot, two fine china cups, and a plate of fresh butter biscuits.
""Your chamomile tea, Mr. Victor,"" Maria said in a voice that was soft, submissive, and completely devoid of emotion. ""You asked for it before the Manhattan attorneys arrived.""
Victor glanced at her, irritation flickering across his sharp features. ""Leave it on the table and get out. And keep that kid of yours quiet. I heard running in the corridors.""
""Daisy is taking her afternoon nap, sir,"" Maria replied smoothly. She picked up the teapot with steady hands and poured the steaming amber liquid into the delicate cup. She didn't blink. Her hands didn't shake. Inside her apron pocket, an empty amber glass bottle that had once contained Daniel’s heavy prescription sleeping drops rested warm against her hip.
She placed the teacup directly beside Victor’s elbow, along with a linen napkin. ""Is there anything else you need, sir?""
Victor barely looked at her. He reached out, grabbed the cup, and took a long, hot gulp, his eyes already scanning the probate papers on the desk. ""No. Close the doors behind you.""
""Yes, Mr. Victor."" Maria bowed her head, turned the cart around, and walked out into the corridor. The moment the heavy oak doors clicked shut behind her, she leaned against the wood, her heart pounding like a machine gun inside her ribs. She had done it.
At the end of the long gallery, Samuel was waiting in the shadows near the grandfather clock. He gave her a sharp, questioning nod.
Maria nodded back once. It is done.
Suddenly, the front entrance intercom buzzed with three short, frantic bursts. Samuel rushed toward the security monitors near the private elevator. On the grainy black-and-white screen, four black Cadillac Escalades were idling outside the iron perimeter gates in the pouring rain.
""Are those Victor’s men?"" Maria whispered, panic creeping back into her voice.
Samuel smiled, a cold, vicious grin that transformed his elderly face into that of a seasoned wartime general. ""No, Maria. Those are the boys from South Brooklyn. Anthony’s father’s old guard. Let’s go open the gates.""
Downstairs in the cellar, Anthony was using every ounce of his returning strength. Fuelled by the warm potato soup and the fierce adrenaline pumping through his veins, he dragged himself over to the rusted corner of the cage where the heavy water pipes entered the stone foundation.
Decades of dampness had corroded the iron brackets holding the lower horizontal bar to the masonry. Anthony wedged a broken piece of concrete slab beneath the bottom hinge.
""Just a little more,"" he grunted through clenched teeth, his ribs searing with agony. ""Hold together, Caruso. Don't die on her now.""
He threw his entire body weight against the lever. With a deafening, metallic screech that tore through the damp silence of the basement, the bottom hinge sheared off the rotten stone wall. The gap was narrow, barely eighteen inches wide, but for a man fighting for his life and the lives of the only two people who had cared if he lived or died, it was wide enough.
Anthony squeezed his battered shoulders through the jagged iron gap, ignoring the sharp metal tearing through his shirt and skin. He dropped onto the cold cellar floor, free.
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He stood upright on shaking legs, leaning against the damp brick wall to steady himself. In the gloom, his eyes landed on a heavy iron crowbar left behind an old wine barrel. He picked it up, feeling the cold, reassuring weight in his scarred palms.
""Coming for you, Victor,"" Anthony whispered into the dark.
