Chapter 4 - The Listener’s Table
Roman stepped out onto the iron catwalk, his boots making faint metallic clicks above the rushing black water below. He picked up the military radio, turning it over in his gloved hand.
The digital frequency display was dark, but the side switch was set to a private, encrypted channel.
"Military grade," Roman said, his eyes scanning the dark cavern walls. "Not local police. Not rival families from the district. This is contractor hardware."
Eva remained inside the doorway, her eyes lingering on the small wooden crate beside the rifle.
"Look at the teacup," she said.
Roman lowered his flashlight toward the porcelain cup.
It was delicate, decorated with fine hand-painted blue ivy along the rim. It didn't belong in a cold, subterranean tunnel. It belonged in the grand parlor upstairs.
"That's part of the imperial service," Roman said, his voice dropping into a cold register. "Brought from Venice by my mother in 1994. There are only twelve settings in the world."
"Where is the set kept?" Eva asked.
"In the display china cabinet in the formal dining room," Roman replied. "Behind lock and key."
"Who has the keys?"
Roman’s silence was heavier than the roar of the river beneath them.
"Mrs. Delaney," Roman said quietly. "And my sister, Isabella."
Eva looked at the boots resting beside the crate. They were small—size seven or eight—well-worn, with supple leather soles designed for silent movement on hard surfaces.
"Those aren't a man's boots," Eva noted, pointing her beam at the shape of the footwear. "Look at the narrow heel and the instep. They're customized combat boots made for a woman."
Roman knelt beside the boots. He didn't touch them immediately. He reached out with his light, illuminating the inside collar of the left boot where a small name tag had been stitched into the leather lining.
I.B.
Isabella Bellaro.
Roman’s younger sister.
The girl who had been twelve years old when their father died. The girl who had spent the last ten years traveling between art academies in Florence, Paris, and London, returning to Bellaro House only for holidays and family anniversaries.
The girl who had been sleeping in the east wing guest suite when Eva had been ordered to change the linens two hours ago.
Roman stood up slowly. His face was entirely devoid of color, his features looking as if they had been carved from white marble.
"She was twelve," Roman whispered, the words tearing out of his throat like jagged glass. "When my father died... she was twelve years old."
"She couldn't have built these tunnels at twelve," Eva reasoned quickly, stepping out onto the catwalk beside him. "The brickwork is decades old. Your grandfather built the hollow walls. But someone handed her the key to them."
Suddenly, the military radio in Roman’s hand crackled to life.
A woman's voice came through the small speaker—calm, melodic, completely devoid of panic, despite the static of the encrypted channel.
"You always were too observant for your own good, Roman," the voice said.
It was Isabella.
Roman raised the radio to his mouth, his fingers white against the plastic housing. "Isabella. Where are you?"
May you like
A soft chuckle echoed through the speaker, accompanied by the faint, distinct sound of a grandfather clock ticking in the background.
"I’m in your office, brother," Isabella said smoothly. "Sitting in Father’s favorite chair. Looking at the safe behind the ocean landscape. Did you know he kept a second ledger? Not the one about the shipments or the politicians. The one about us."
