Chapter 3 - The shadowed portrait
The hidden corridor was completely untouched by time, smelling faintly of old paper and dried lavender. Dominic pulled a sleek silver flashlight from his desk drawer, its bright beam cutting through the darkness. He stepped into the passage first, his broad shoulders easily filling the narrow space, keeping himself positioned protectively between Clara and the unknown.
Clara followed closely, the hem of her black maid dress brushing against the stone walls. Her heart was beating a frantic rhythm. She was a woman who lived paycheck to paycheck, scrubbing floors to survive. Now, she was walking through a secret passage with the most feared man in the city.
The corridor ended at a heavy, iron-bound wooden door. Dominic pushed it open, the old hinges groaning loudly in the silence.
He swept the flashlight across the room, finding a set of old gas lamps wired for electricity. He flipped a heavy brass switch on the wall. The room flooded with a warm, golden cinematic light, revealing a space that had been sealed away for decades.
It was a master study, far older and more elegant than Dominic’s modern office. The furniture was draped in heavy velvet dust covers. But what commanded the room was a massive, floor-to-ceiling oil painting hanging over the grand fireplace.
Clara gasped, taking a step backward, her hand flying to her mouth.
The woman in the painting was wearing a stunning, dark velvet gown. She sat with an air of absolute authority and regal elegance. But it was her face that made the blood freeze in Clara’s veins. The woman had the exact same fair, rosy complexion, the exact same striking features, and the exact same piercing blue eyes as Clara. It was like looking into a mirror reflecting a century into the past.
“My grandmother,” Clara whispered, her voice trembling. “Evelyn Bennett.”
Dominic stared at the portrait, his jaw tight. The rugged, sophisticated boss of the Carvelli family felt a sudden, profound shift in the universe. The woman in the painting wasn't just wealthy. She possessed the confident posture of a monarch.
“This room,” Dominic said, his voice dropping to a low rumble, “is located exactly in the center of the estate. It is the heart of the house. A house my father told me he built from the ground up.”
Clara walked slowly toward the fireplace. Around the neck of the woman in the painting hung a magnificent, unique diamond necklace, featuring a large, teardrop-shaped sapphire surrounded by intricate gold latticework.
Clara reached into the collar of her modest maid uniform and pulled out a simple silver chain she wore every day. Hanging from it was a small, cheap glass replica of the exact same teardrop design.
“She told me it was costume jewelry,” Clara said, tears welling in her eyes. “She told me our family used to be important, a long time ago, but that we lost everything in a bad deal.”
Dominic walked up behind her. His presence was a towering, solid force in the quiet room. “A mafia boss doesn't make bad deals, Clara. He makes takeovers. If my father took this estate from your family, he didn't do it legally. And if Celeste knows about this, it means my brother knew about it before he died.”
At the mention of Celeste, the heavy wooden door behind them slammed shut with a violent crash.
Dominic spun around, instantly reaching inside his tailored charcoal tuxedo jacket, his hand resting on the grip of a concealed weapon. The room fell silent. No one was there. It was just the heavy draft of the old house.
But down in the grand hallway, Celeste was pacing furiously, her emerald gown swirling around her ankles. She held a sleek smartphone to her ear, her beautiful face contorted with panic and rage.
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“He found the key,” Celeste hissed into the phone, her American accent dripping with venom. “Dominic has the girl. We have a massive problem. If he opens that room and finds the original deed, the syndicate council will strip the Carvelli name of everything. I need a cleanup crew at the estate tonight. I don't care what it costs.”
She hung up the phone, her hands shaking. She looked up at the grand staircase of the house she had killed to control. She was not going to let a maid take her crown.
