Chapter 2 - THE BLOODLINE’S BETRAYALThe drainage tunnel smelled of stagnant river water and rusted iron. Every step we took sent echoes bouncing down the brick-lined archway, sounding like drumbeats in the dark.
I supported Lorenzo’s weight, my shoulder burning, while Emma walked closely beside us, holding tight to my skirt with one hand and dragging her stuffed rabbit with the other. She didn’t cry. She didn’t complain. Three years old, yet she possessed a terrifying, quiet resilience that mirrored the man leaning heavily on my arm.
“Careful,” Lorenzo hissed, his boots slipping slightly on the slick moss. “The drop-off ahead leads straight into the ravine. If we make noise, the watchtowers will catch us.”
“Save your breath for walking,” I whispered back, scanning the gloom ahead. The tunnel was pitch black, save for the weak beam of a small keychain flashlight I kept in my apron pocket.
As we navigated the winding corridor, Lorenzo’s mind was clearly racing. The audio recording we had left behind in the vault played on a continuous loop in my head: Once Lorenzo is dead, the family becomes mine.
“She’s been planning this for years,” Lorenzo muttered, his voice tight with a mixture of fury and disbelief. “The offshore accounts, the renegotiated cartel routes in Marseille—I thought she was just trying to prove her worth as a Duca. I gave her the keys to the legal holdings. I never thought she’d sell out to Marco.”
“Power makes monsters out of family,” I said coldly. “You built an empire on fear, Mr. Duca. You shouldn’t be surprised when the people closest to you learned how to use it.”
He shot me a sidelong glance, his jaw clenching. “You talk too much for a maid, Elena.”
“My name is Clara. And keep that in mind before you insult the person currently keeping you from bleeding out in a sewer.”
A sharp flash of light cut through the far end of the tunnel.
We froze.
Fifty yards ahead, where the tunnel opened up to the rocky coastal cliffs, the sweep of a high-powered searchlight slashed across the exit.
“Checkpoint,” Lorenzo cursed, sliding his pistol back into his grip. “Marco’s men secured the cliff path. They’re locking down the estate.”
“Then we can’t go out the front,” I whispered, looking desperately around the cramped brick walls.
That was when Emma tugged on my hand.
“Mama, look. A little door.”
She was pointing at a rusted access hatch built low into the brickwork, half-hidden behind a thick tangle of exposed roots. A faded stencil on the metal read: PROPERTY MAINTENANCE – SECTOR 4.
Lorenzo stared at it, his eyes narrowing. “An old ventilation shaft. It connects to the cliffside pump house down by the private docks. It hasn’t been used in a decade.”
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“Can we fit?” I asked.
“We don’t have a choice,” Lorenzo replied, kicking the rusted latch with his heel. With a screech of protesting metal, the hatch popped open, spilling the smell of salt spray and imminent danger into the dark.
