Chapter 3 - THE BLEEDING VINTAGEDante and Marco drew their weapons in unison, the metallic click of safety catches echoing sharply off the stone walls of the vault.
"Stay here," Dante ordered, his voice dropping into the lethal register he reserved for boardroom takeovers and midnight executions. He stalked toward the southern wall, where thousands of dollars worth of rare wine rested in custom mahogany cubbies.
The intercom hissed again, falling silent as Dante reached the racks.
He scanned the rows. Dust coated the bottles—all except one. In the center of the prime rack, a single bottle of 1945 Château Latour sat askew. Worse still, a thick, dark liquid was slowly weeping down the neck of the bottle, pooling onto the slate floor below.
Marco stepped up beside him, his nostrils flaring. "That's not wine, Dante."
Dante reached out, his gloved fingers wrapping around the neck of the bottle. He pulled it free. The liquid dripping onto his palm was warm, thick, and unmistakably iron-scented.
Blood.
Etched sharply into the glass of the bottle with a diamond cutter was a single word: YOURS.
"She's in the house," Marco hissed, his gun raised toward the spiral staircase leading back up to the main level. "She’s leading us on a leash."
"No," Dante said, staring at the fresh blood on his hand as his mind raced through the blueprints of the estate. "She's not leading us. She's keeping us down here."
Realization slammed into Dante with the force of a physical blow. The nursery. Leo.
"Leo!" Dante roared, abandoning caution as he sprinted for the spiral stairs, taking them three at a time with Marco hot on his heels.
The iron gate at the top of the cellar stairs was locked from the outside.
"Stand back!" Marco yelled, raising his boot to kick the reinforced iron. But before his heel could connect, the heavy lock clicked open on its own. The door swung slowly inward, creaking in the drafty corridor.
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Standing in the hallway, holding a silver tray with a steaming cup of cinnamon tea, was Elena. Her dark dress was immaculate, her hair pinned back without a single stray strand.
"You'll catch your death of cold running around in the damp, Mr. Moretti," Elena said smoothly, tilting her head as she offered him the tray. "And you wouldn't want to be shaking when you face what's upstairs."
