Chapter 3 - Secrets Written in Dust
The blue guest room was larger than Lena’s entire apartment in Dorchester.
It featured a king-sized canopy bed draped in navy velvet, a private hearth, and massive leaded-glass windows that overlooked the dark gardens behind the estate. The housekeeper, a stoic woman named Mrs. Gable, had dropped off a pair of soft grey sweatpants, a cotton sweater, and a tray containing hot soup and tea before leaving without a single word.
Lena changed out of her wet clothes, her mind racing at a terrifying speed.
She paced the floor, her mind replaying Grace’s strange warning: Don't touch the brass handles on the third floor.
Why would a six-year-old say that? What was on the third floor?
Lena walked to the window, looking down at the grounds. Rain continued to fall in sheets, blurring the manicured hedges and stone pathways. Security guards paced the perimeter with searchlights, their shadows stretching long across the wet lawn.
She checked her purse. Her phone was gone—Julian’s men had quietly confiscated it while she was changing. She was trapped, isolated in a golden cage built by one of the most dangerous men in the city.
Unable to sit still, Lena approached the heavy oak door of her room. She gently turned the handle.
To her surprise, it swung open smoothly, without a sound.
The hallway outside was dimly lit by wall sconces set low against the wainscoting. The air was cool, smelling faintly of old paper, floor wax, and something else—a subtle, medicinal scent that smelled like antiseptics and lavender.
Lena slipped out of her room, her socked feet making no sound on the runner rug.
She remembered the layout as she walked. The main grand staircase led down to the parlor, while a smaller, narrower staircase tucked behind a grandfather clock led upward.
The third floor.
Curiosity, combined with the instinct of a woman who knew she was already in danger, pushed her forward. If Julian Vance was going to keep her here, she needed leverage. She needed to know what game was being played around her.
She reached the base of the third-floor staircase.
Unlike the luxurious second floor, this staircase was bare wood, dust settling in the corners. A heavy velvet curtain hung across the top landing, obscuring whatever lay beyond.
Lena crept up the steps, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She reached the top and carefully pulled back the velvet curtain.
The third-floor hallway was narrow, industrial, and completely devoid of the estate’s grand decor. The walls were painted a stark, clinical white. Recessed fluorescent lights flickered softly overhead.
And set into the wall at the end of the hall was a massive, reinforced steel door.
It looked completely out of place in a Victorian manor—more suited to a bank vault or a high-security lab. Fixed to the center of the steel panel was a polished brass handle, shining under the harsh light.
Lena felt a chill run down her spine as Grace’s words echoed in her mind: Don't touch the brass handles on the third floor.
She stepped closer, keeping her hands tucked into the pockets of her borrowed sweater.
As she drew within three feet of the door, she heard a sound that made her blood turn to ice.
It was not the hum of security equipment. It was not the wind outside.
It was the steady, rhythmic beep of a heart monitor.
And beneath the electronic beep, a ragged, fragile human breath—drawn in, held, and slowly exhaled.
Lena’s breath hitched in her throat. Someone was behind that door. Someone who was alive, hooked up to medical machinery, kept hidden in the attic of a mafia don’s estate.
Suddenly, a quiet click sounded from the wall beside her.
A red light above the door flashed to green, and the heavy electronic lock disengaged with a deep, hydraulic hiss.
Lena froze, her instinct screaming at her to run, but before she could move, the steel door slowly swung outward three inches.
A gap opened.
Through the crack, illuminated by the soft green glow of medical monitors, Lena saw a hospital bed.
Lying in the bed, pale as alabaster, her long golden hair spread across white linen, was a woman. She was connected to an IV drip and a quiet ventilator mask. Her face was hollowed by sickness, but her features were unmistakable.
It was the face from the oil painting in the grand parlor downstairs.
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It was Julian Vance’s wife.
The woman who had supposedly died three years ago.
