Chapter 3 - Echoes Beneath the FloorboardsUpstairs, the heavy footsteps stopped pacing directly above the secret cellar.
Silas held his breath, his back pressed against the cold stone wall. The rusty iron of the chair dug into his spine, but he barely felt it. The adrenaline rushing through his veins kept the fiery agony of his shoulder wound at bay.
In the corner behind the wooden crates, little Poppy clutched a stuffed rabbit to her chest, her big eyes wide with a mixture of fear and stubborn defiance. She had listened to Silas. She hadn't called out for her mother. But children are unpredictable, and Silas knew that if Graham Voss—or one of his traitorous executioners—found them down here, no one would leave this mansion alive.
Creak.
The cellar door, hidden beneath the Persian rug in the grand library upstairs, began to lift.
A beam of yellow light cut through the gloom, slicing across the damp concrete floor.
“I know you’re down here, Silas,” a smooth, chillingly polite voice echoed down the stone steps.
Graham Voss.
Silas didn't answer. He kept his eyes locked on the staircase, his muscles tensing despite his bound wrists. Every fiber of his being calculated the angles, the distance, the minuscule chance of breaking free if someone stepped close enough.
“Don’t bother playing statues,” Graham called out, his leather-soled shoes clicking rhythmically against the stone stairs as he descended into the darkness. A silver-barreled pistol gleamed in his hand, catching the dim light. “Your security teams are three miles away chasing decoys. Your lieutenants think you’re in a helicopter over Lake Michigan. It’s just you, me, and the damp air.”
Graham reached the bottom of the steps, stepping into the pool of light. He looked at Silas tied to the iron chair, and a slow, triumphant smile spread across his thin lips.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” Graham murmured, walking in a slow circle around Silas. “Thirty years of building an empire, all to be handed over with a single signature. You grew soft, Silas. You got old. You started trusting maids and strays with children.”
Silas finally spoke, his voice steady, cold as winter ice. “You think a piece of paper makes you a king, Graham? You’re just a bookkeeper wearing a borrowed crown.”
Graham’s smile vanished. He raised the pistol, pressing the cold steel directly against Silas’s temple.
“The paper makes me invincible,” Graham hissed. “And once I put a bullet in your brain and tell the commission you tried to flee the country, your entire empire belongs to me. No witnesses. No loose ends.”
He cocked the hammer.
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Suddenly, a sharp clink echoed from the dark corner behind the crates.
Graham froze. He snapped his head toward the sound, raising his gun hand. “Who’s there?”
