Chapter 2 - The Room Behind the Library
The electronic locks engaging throughout Duca Manor sounded like gunshots.
Hannah heard the first one while Eleanor wrapped gauze around her palm in the servants’ pantry.
Then another.
Then another.
Heavy steel bolts slid into place behind century-old doors, sealing the mansion room by room.
Hannah looked toward the hallway.
“What’s happening?”
Eleanor did not answer immediately.
The estate manager was sixty, silver-haired, straight-backed, and normally impossible to unsettle. Hannah had watched her handle drunken senators, screaming socialites, broken plumbing, and one guest who had thrown a chair through a French window because someone insulted his yacht.
Tonight, Eleanor’s hands were shaking.
“Mr. Duca has ordered the estate secured.”
“Because I dropped glasses?”
“No.”
Eleanor tied the bandage.
“Because Vincent Duca has never looked at anyone the way he looked at you.”
That frightened Hannah more than anger would have.
She stood.
“I should leave.”
“You can’t.”
“I need to.”
“Hannah.”
“My apartment—”
“Is empty.”
The male voice came from the doorway.
Hannah turned.
Vincent stood there.
He had removed his jacket. His white shirt was open at the throat, sleeves pushed slightly back, revealing the dark edge of a tattoo across one forearm.
Behind him stood Marcus Cain, his security chief.
Hannah’s stomach tightened.
Vincent stepped into the pantry.
“How do you know where I live?”
“I know where everyone working inside my home lives.”
“That’s disturbing.”
“Tonight it’s useful.”
He placed something on the counter.
A photograph.
Hannah stared at it.
Her apartment door.
Broken inward.
Her living room beyond it had been destroyed.
Couch cushions cut open.
Drawers overturned.
Mattress ripped apart.
Her books scattered across the floor.
Hannah stopped breathing.
“When?”
“Forty minutes ago.”
“My things…”
“They weren’t looking for money.”
Vincent watched her carefully.
“They were looking for something small enough to hide.”
Hannah said nothing.
Vincent’s gaze sharpened.
“What do you have?”
“Nothing.”
“Wrong answer.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
“The truth would be refreshing.”
Hannah looked toward Eleanor.
The older woman quietly left.
Marcus remained.
Vincent noticed Hannah’s eyes flick toward him.
“Marcus.”
Marcus understood.
He stepped outside and closed the door.
Now they were alone.
Vincent leaned against the counter.
“Twenty-four years ago, Clara Vale died in a fire.”
Hannah’s expression changed.
Barely.
But Vincent saw it.
“You know that name.”
“No.”
“You reacted.”
“I reacted because you’re talking about a dead woman while keeping me locked inside a mansion.”
“Who was she?”
“I don’t know.”
Vincent moved closer.
Hannah stepped backward until the counter touched her hip.
He stopped immediately.
That surprised her.
Men with power usually enjoyed watching people retreat.
Vincent seemed to hate it.
His voice softened.
“I’m not going to hurt you.”
“You locked the doors.”
“To keep someone else from hurting you.”
“How comforting.”
Something almost like amusement passed through his eyes.
Then disappeared.
“Who gave you the scar?”
Hannah covered her wrist.
“My mother.”
The answer escaped before she could stop it.
Vincent went completely still.
Hannah closed her eyes.
Damn it.
“What was her name?”
“Sarah.”
“Sarah what?”
“Brooks.”
“Where is she?”
“Dead.”
Vincent studied her.
“How?”
“Cancer. Eight years ago.”
“Did she give birth to you?”
Hannah’s face hardened.
“What kind of question is that?”
“One you know the answer to.”
“My mother was my mother.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
Hannah pushed past him.
Vincent caught the door before she could open it.
He did not touch her.
“Hannah.”
“Move.”
“Tell me why Clara Vale’s scar is on your wrist.”
“I don’t know Clara Vale!”
Vincent stared at her.
And Hannah finally snapped.
“My mother told me never to talk about the scar. She told me never to ask where it came from. She told me if anyone recognized it, I should leave immediately.”
Vincent’s face lost color.
Hannah saw it.
“What?”
He said nothing.
“What?”
“Clara told me the same thing.”
The pantry suddenly felt smaller.
Hannah swallowed.
“That’s impossible.”
“Yes.”
Vincent’s voice was barely audible.
“It is.”
A knock interrupted them.
Marcus opened the door.
“We found something.”
“Where?”
“Her apartment.”
Hannah frowned.
“You said it was searched.”
“It was. We searched it again.”
Marcus held up a clear evidence bag.
Inside was an old brass key.
Hannah stared.
“I’ve never seen that.”
“Found inside the lining of your winter coat.”
“My coat?”
“Someone stitched it into the hem.”
Vincent took the bag.
The key was tiny.
Old.
A number was engraved into the shaft.
Vincent’s expression changed again.
Marcus noticed.
“You recognize it?”
Vincent looked toward Hannah.
“Yes.”
“From where?”
Vincent was silent for several seconds.
“Union Station.”
Hannah frowned.
“What?”
“Before the renovations, the old station had private luggage lockers in the underground service corridor.”
Marcus looked at the key.
“Twenty-four years ago?”
Vincent nodded.
“Clara used locker 317.”
Hannah felt the floor shift beneath her.
“No.”
Vincent stepped closer.
“Your mother put Clara Vale’s key inside your coat.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Who else had access?”
Hannah thought of the coat.
It had belonged to Sarah.
Her mother had worn it every winter until chemotherapy made her too thin.
After she died, Hannah could not bring herself to throw it away.
She had been wearing it for eight years.
“My mother.”
The words came quietly.
Vincent turned to Marcus.
“Get the car.”
Marcus frowned.
“The estate is locked down.”
“Exactly.”
“Vincent—”
“Someone tore apart Hannah’s apartment tonight. They know she has something.”
Vincent looked at the key.
“We find it first.”
Twenty minutes later, they left Duca Manor through a hidden garage beneath the east wing.
Only Vincent, Hannah, and Marcus went.
No convoy.
No obvious security.
Vincent drove.
Hannah sat beside him while Chicago moved beyond the windows in streaks of rain and neon.
She kept glancing at him.
Finally, Vincent spoke.
“Ask.”
“What?”
“You’ve looked at me seventeen times.”
“You counted?”
“I count everything.”
Hannah hesitated.
“Were you in love with her?”
His hands tightened slightly on the steering wheel.
“Clara?”
“Yes.”
“I was sixteen.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No.”
He stared through the windshield.
“It isn’t.”
Hannah waited.
Vincent eventually said, “She saved my life.”
“How?”
“My father worked for men who believed loyalty was something you purchased with fear. Clara’s family knew things about them. Things powerful people wanted forgotten.”
“The fire.”
“Yes.”
“Was it an accident?”
“No.”
Hannah looked at him.
Vincent’s jaw hardened.
“I spent twenty-four years proving that.”
“Did you?”
“I proved someone ordered it.”
“But not who.”
“No.”
They reached Union Station shortly before midnight.
Marcus had already arranged access to a closed service corridor beneath the building.
Dust covered the old tiled walls.
The modern station noise disappeared above them.
At the end of the corridor stood a row of forgotten metal lockers scheduled for removal during restoration work.
Most doors hung open.
317 remained closed.
Hannah held the key.
Her hand trembled.
Vincent stood beside her.
“You don’t have to do this.”
She looked at him.
“My apartment was destroyed because somebody thinks I already did.”
She inserted the key.
It turned.
The lock clicked.
Inside sat a small metal box.
Nothing else.
Marcus checked it before allowing Hannah to touch it.
She opened the lid.
Three objects rested inside.
A photograph.
A cassette tape.
And a sealed envelope.
Hannah picked up the photograph first.
A young woman stood outside a hospital.
Dark hair.
Large eyes.
A crescent scar visible on her wrist.
Clara.
Beside her stood another woman.
Sarah Brooks.
Hannah’s mother.
Sarah was holding a newborn baby.
Hannah turned the photograph over.
Three words had been written on the back.
HER NAME IS HANNAH.
Her knees weakened.
Vincent caught her elbow.
She stared at him.
“No.”
Neither of them noticed Marcus turning toward the corridor.
Not until he drew his gun.
“Vincent.”
Footsteps.
Several.
Approaching quickly.
Vincent pulled Hannah behind him.
The first bullet struck locker 316.
Metal screamed.
Marcus fired twice.
Someone shouted.
The lights went out.
Darkness swallowed the corridor.
Vincent grabbed Hannah’s hand.
“Run.”
They moved through darkness as gunfire exploded behind them.
Marcus covered their retreat.
Vincent pushed open an emergency door leading into an abandoned maintenance tunnel.
Hannah stumbled.
The photograph slipped from her hand.
Vincent caught it before it hit the ground.
Another bullet struck the doorframe.
They reached a concrete stairwell.
Marcus slammed the security door behind them.
“Three shooters,” he said. “Maybe four.”
Vincent looked at the box.
“The tape.”
Hannah still held it.
“Do we have anything to play it on?”
Marcus almost laughed.
“You’re asking the wrong generation.”
Vincent looked at the cassette.
Clara’s handwriting covered the label.
One sentence.
FOR VINCENT—IF HANNAH EVER FINDS YOU.
Hannah stared.
The station seemed to disappear around her.
Vincent turned the cassette over.
There was another line.
Smaller.
Written in faded ink.
DO NOT TRUST DOMINIC SALERNO.
And back at Duca Manor, Dominic Salerno stood alone inside Vincent’s locked study.
Holding the only photograph Vincent had ever kept of Clara Vale.
May you like
He placed it into the fireplace.
Then smiled as the flames consumed her face.
