Chapter 3 - The Traitor’s Footsteps
Before Rhett Marquetti could answer, the silence of the east wing shattered.
From the base of the grand staircase, three floors down, came the distinct chime of the private elevator, followed by the heavy, rhythmic thud of four pairs of combat boots on the travertine foyer.
Kostas stood up instantly, flattening his back against the walnut doorframe, peering out into the hallway with his gun drawn. His knuckles were bone-white.
“It’s Dominic,” Kostas hissed. “He’s got the Castiglione brothers with him. They’re carrying street sweepers.”
“Street sweepers?” Leo squeaked, his voice cracking. “Shotguns? In the house?”
“They aren't here to check his pulse,” Winnie said. She stood up, her knees popping loudly in the quiet room. Her smock was ruined, covered in vomit and charcoal, but her mind was calculating with the cold, brutal clarity of someone who had balanced an overdrawn checkbook every month for ten years.
“If they find him alive, they finish the job,” she said, looking down at Rhett.
The Don tried to sit up. His arms shook violently; the poison had bypassed the heart thanks to the charcoal, but his motor control was shredded. He managed to prop himself on one elbow, his teeth bared in a snarl that belonged on an animal caught in a bear trap.
“My safe,” Rhett rasped, nodding toward the oil painting of the Venetian harbor. “Code... 8-4-1-9. Sub-nose... inside.”
“You can’t hold a gun, Mr. Marquetti,” Winnie said bluntly. “Your hands are shaking like a washing machine on the spin cycle.”
“I can pull... a trigger,” he hissed.
“Leo,” Winnie commanded, ignoring the Don entirely. “Help him up. We need to move.”
“Where?” Kostas hissed back, looking over his shoulder. “They’re taking the main stairs. We have sixty seconds before they clear the landing. If we run for the elevator, we’re fish in a barrel.”
“We’re not going to the elevator,” Winnie said. She walked over to the massive four-poster mahogany bed, grabbed the brass handles of the heavy Victorian wardrobe beside it, and shoved. It didn't move. She set her shoulder against it, planted her boots, and groaned with exertion. The massive piece of furniture slid two feet across the floorboards, revealing a low, narrow wooden door set into the wall, no taller than four feet.
Kostas stared. “What is that?”
“The laundry tunnel,” Winnie said, wiping sweat from her forehead. “This house was built in 1912 by an industrialist who didn't want to see his servants carrying dirty sheets down the main stairs. It drops straight into the east linen chute, bypasses the second floor, and empties into the commercial washroom behind the kitchen.”
Rhett, leaning heavily on Leo’s shoulder as the younger guard hauled him up, glared at the tiny door. “I am not... crawling through a laundry chute.”
Winnie turned on him, her hands on her hips, her smock stained with his near-death.
“Listen to me, Don Marquetti,” she snapped, her voice low and sharp. “You can either crawl through dirty linen, or you can stay here and let Dominic put three twelve-gauge slugs into your forehead. I don’t care about your family honor, but I’ve got three hours left on my shift and I am not dragging a dead mobster down the stairs. Now get in the hole.”
For two seconds, Kostas looked like he was going to shoot her for blasphemy.
Then, a dry, raspy sound escaped Rhett Marquetti’s throat. A laugh. A terrifying, ruined laugh that sounded like rusty iron scraping over stone.
“She’s right,” Rhett whispered, his amber eyes glittering in the gloom. “Get in... the hole.”
Down the hallway, the heavy double doors at the landing banged open against the wall.
*“Kostas! Leo!”* Dominic Vane’s voice drifted down the corridor, smooth, resonant, entirely untroubled. *“Did you hear a commotion up here? The doctor was worried Mr. Marquetti might need... assistance.”*
“Move!” Winnie whispered.
Leo dove into the chute first, his dress shoes disappearing into the darkness with a muffled thud and a curse as he slid down the metal lining. Kostas took Rhett under the arms, guiding the Don’s long legs into the opening. Rhett gritted his teeth, his jaw muscles clenching until they looked ready to snap, refusing to make a sound as his ribs dragged against the narrow frame.
“You, Doyle,” Kostas whispered, turning back. “Go.”
“I’m right behind you,” she said.
She didn't immediately jump. She reached down, picked up the shattered Macallan bottle, and tossed it into the center of the bed, spreading the remaining alcohol across the silk sheets. Then she grabbed the silver lighter from the nightstand, flicked it once, and dropped it onto the mattress.
The high-proof alcohol caught with a soft *whoosh*, blue flames racing across the fabric, immediately licking at the heavy velvet headboard. Thick, dark smoke billowed toward the plaster ceiling, setting off the high-decibel fire alarms with a deafening, shrieking wail.
Water sprinklers burst to life, raining freezing water down into the bedroom.
May you like
Winnie grinned—a sharp, feral Southside grin—dropped to her stomach, and shoved herself feet-first into the laundry chute just as the bedroom doors were kicked entirely off their remaining hinges.
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