Chapter 4 - Under the Crimson Chandelier
The basement of the Marcone estate smelled of damp earth and old wine.
I had been tied to a wooden chair for eighteen hours. My wrists were bruised from the coarse rope, and my head throbbed. But more than the physical pain, a cold, hard anger was beginning to take root inside me.
I was Anna Rossini. I had survived working for Berto Castellano for four years. I had handled angry mob bosses, corrupt politicians, and temperamental hitmen. I was not going to let a second-rate mafia nephew break me.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, and David walked in, holding a cup of paper-cup coffee.
“Still alive?” he asked, offering a fake, sympathetic smile. “You know, Anna, I actually liked you. If you weren’t Berto’s favorite pet, we could have had a nice time.”
“If you think Berto is going to hand over his empire for me, you’re stupider than your haircut,” I spat, spitting a stray hair out of my face.
David’s smile vanished. He stepped close, grabbing my jaw with a cruel grip. “He’s already doing it. The papers are being drawn up. Tonight, at the Crimson Chandelier—the biggest charity gala of the year, where all the families gather—your boss is going to sign over his life’s work to us. And then, once the transfer is official...” He leaned in, his breath hot against my ear. “We’re going to kill him. And you’re going to watch.”
He let go of my jaw, tossing the empty coffee cup aside, and walked out, locking the door behind him.
I waited until the sound of his footsteps faded. Then, I leaned forward, testing the tension of the ropes.
They were tight. But they hadn't factored in one thing.
I was clumsy. I had hyper-mobile joints—a weird medical quirk I’d had since childhood.
With a deep breath, I dislocated my left thumb. The pain was sharp and blinding, making me gasp, but I ignored it. I wriggled my hand, sliding it slowly, agonizingly, out of the rope binding my left wrist.
Free.
I popped my thumb back into place with a sickening crack, wiping the sweat from my forehead. I quickly untied my other hand and my ankles.
I looked around the basement. It was filled with old crates of wine. I grabbed a heavy, dusty bottle of 1982 Chianti.
When the guard opened the door twenty minutes later to check on me, I didn't scream. I waited behind the door.
As soon as his head cleared the frame, I swung the wine bottle with all my strength.
SMASH!
The bottle shattered, showering the floor with red wine and glass. The guard crumpled to the ground, out cold.
I quickly searched his pockets, finding his security badge, a set of car keys, and a compact 9mm pistol. I had never shot a gun in my life, but Berto’s constant safety lectures flashed through my mind: “Keep your finger off the trigger until you’re ready to kill, Anna. Align the sights. Squeeze, don't pull.”
May you like
I took a deep breath, gripped the gun, and slipped out into the corridor.
It was time to go to a gala.
