Chapter 3 - The Woman Missing From the Bed
Roman did not shout.
That frightened everyone more.
“Lock the property.”
Enzo touched his earpiece.
“Already happening.”
“No vehicles leave. No staff leave. No guests leave.”
“The gunshot?”
“Find where it came from.”
Roman crossed Claire’s room.
The IV line lay on the floor.
A single drop of blood marked the sheet where the catheter had been ripped free.
The open window led onto a narrow balcony.
Fresh footprints crossed the snow.
Two sets.
One large.
One small.
Claire had walked out.
Or been forced.
Roman stepped onto the balcony.
A trail descended the exterior servants’ staircase.
Enzo followed.
“Roman, the message said Container 4417.”
“A distraction.”
“Maybe.”
“Someone sends me twenty miles away, then Claire disappears from my house?”
Roman looked at him.
“I’m not leaving.”
They followed the footprints.
Behind the greenhouse, the trail stopped beside a maintenance van.
Door open.
Engine warm.
No driver.
Roman looked inside.
A blanket lay across the rear floor.
Empty.
A smear of blood marked the handle.
Enzo cursed under his breath.
Roman touched the dashboard.
A GPS screen displayed one recent destination.
North Harbor.
Container 4417.
Roman stared at it.
“They want us there.”
“Could be where Claire is.”
“Could be where someone wants me dead.”
Enzo nodded.
“Same answer either way. We go.”
Roman returned inside long enough to arm himself and remove most of the guests from the equation.
He ordered security to move everyone into the ballroom.
Bianca protested.
“This is insane.”
Roman looked at her.
“A woman was taken from an upstairs bedroom.”
“You can’t hold us prisoner.”
“Watch me.”
Matteo sat near the fireplace.
Calm.
Too calm.
Roman approached him.
“Where is Claire?”
Matteo looked genuinely surprised.
“She’s gone?”
“Don’t.”
“Roman—”
Roman played the recording from Claire’s phone.
Bianca’s voice filled the ballroom.
You’re sure the cellar will be locked?
Then Matteo:
She won’t make it back.
A collective silence swallowed the room.
Bianca turned white.
Matteo did not.
When the recording ended, Roman watched his uncle.
Matteo slowly shook his head.
“That isn’t me.”
“It’s your voice.”
“It sounds like my voice.”
Bianca stepped forward.
“And mine.”
Roman looked at her.
Bianca’s eyes were wide now.
“I never said that.”
Earlier she had lied.
Roman knew it.
But something about her panic now felt different.
“You knew Claire went to the cellar.”
“Yes.”
“You handled the note.”
“Yes.”
“You knew her coat was missing.”
“I knew after she checked the room.”
“Then why lie?”
“Because I thought you’d blame me for sending her.”
“Did you?”
“No.”
“Who told you the order came from me?”
Bianca pointed toward Matteo.
The ballroom erupted in whispers.
Matteo laughed once.
“Convenient.”
Bianca snapped, “You brought me the note.”
“I did not.”
“You told me Roman wanted the Bellacosta.”
Matteo stood.
“Enough.”
Roman raised one hand.
Everyone stopped.
He looked at Matteo.
“Empty your pockets.”
Matteo stared at him.
“Roman.”
“Now.”
Matteo’s expression hardened.
But he obeyed.
Wallet.
Keys.
Phone.
Cigar cutter.
Handkerchief.
Nothing else.
Roman picked up the phone.
Locked.
“Code.”
Matteo smiled faintly.
“You know it.”
Roman entered his father’s birthday.
Unlocked.
He searched calls.
One outgoing call at 8:04.
Unknown number.
Duration: fourteen seconds.
Roman called it.
From somewhere across the ballroom, a phone began to ring.
Every head turned.
Mrs. Bell stood beside the service doors.
The ringing came from her apron.
She looked horrified.
“I don’t know—”
Roman approached.
“Give it to me.”
Her hands shook as she removed an unfamiliar black phone.
“I swear, I’ve never seen this before.”
Roman answered the active call.
Silence.
He ended it.
Matteo said, “Looks like your housekeeper has secrets.”
Mrs. Bell burst into tears.
“I have worked for this family twenty-eight years.”
Roman believed her fear.
That did not mean she was innocent.
“Search her room.”
Two guards escorted her away.
Roman turned to Enzo.
“North Harbor.”
They left through the garage.
During the drive, Roman called Dr. Marino.
“If Claire was moved, what condition would she be in?”
“Fragile. She should not be walking.”
“Could she be conscious?”
“Yes.”
“Could she survive twenty minutes outside?”
“Not safely.”
Roman ended the call.
Snow blurred the highway.
Enzo drove.
Roman stared at Claire’s phone.
The forged voice recording bothered him.
Technology could imitate voices.
Someone could have built the conversation from previous recordings.
But why?
To turn Roman against Matteo and Bianca?
Or to make him doubt real evidence?
He opened Claire’s photos.
Most were ordinary.
Her mother.
A gray cat.
A cheap birthday cake.
A grocery receipt.
Then a photograph of the wine-crate receipt.
Claire had taken it before hiding the original.
Roman zoomed in.
The list contained more than container numbers.
There were initials beside each shipment.
V.D.
M.D.
D.C.
And one Roman had not noticed.
E.B.
Roman frowned.
“Enzo.”
“Yeah?”
“Who was E.B. in my father’s organization?”
Enzo thought.
“Eleanor Bennett.”
Roman looked at him.
“Who?”
“Bookkeeper. Years ago.”
“Bennett?”
Enzo glanced over.
“Claire?”
Roman’s stomach tightened.
“Tell me.”
“Eleanor Bennett worked for your father. She disappeared maybe fifteen years ago.”
“Disappeared?”
“Officially resigned.”
“Unofficially?”
“No one knew.”
Roman searched Claire’s phone again.
There were dozens of calls to “Mom.”
Eleanor.
Roman opened the contact photograph.
An older woman smiled beside Claire.
He knew that face.
He had seen it as a child.
A woman in his father’s office.
Always carrying red folders.
Always kind to Roman.
Once, when Roman was nine, she had smuggled him chocolate during a meeting because Vittorio refused to let him leave the room.
Claire was Eleanor Bennett’s daughter.
And Claire had never mentioned it.
North Harbor Storage appeared through the storm.
Rows of containers stretched beneath industrial lights.
Container 4417 stood alone near the water.
Door open.
Roman and Enzo approached with guns drawn.
Inside, a single lamp burned.
No Claire.
No captor.
Only a chair.
On it sat a cassette recorder.
Roman pressed play.
His father’s voice filled the container.
“If Roman hears this, then I failed.”
Roman froze.
Vittorio continued.
“Someone inside our family has been replacing shipments. Wine was only the beginning. Money, weapons, pharmaceuticals. I trusted the wrong person.”
Static.
Then:
“Eleanor Bennett has the ledger.”
Roman stared at the machine.
“If anything happens to me, find her.”
The recording stopped.
Enzo whispered, “Roman…”
A noise came from behind them.
They turned.
Damian Cole stood outside the container.
Gray suit.
Black signet ring.
He raised both hands.
“I’m not here to fight.”
Roman aimed at him.
“Where is Claire?”
“Alive.”
“Where?”
“Not here.”
Roman stepped forward.
“You have three seconds.”
Damian looked exhausted.
Older than Roman remembered.
“You think Matteo ordered her death.”
“I heard his voice.”
“It wasn’t him.”
“Bianca?”
“No.”
“Then who?”
Damian looked toward the harbor.
“The same person who killed your father.”
Roman’s gun remained steady.
“Name.”
Damian shook his head.
“Not until you understand why Claire was hired.”
“She was hired because the agency sent her.”
“No.”
Roman’s eyes narrowed.
“Her mother sent her.”
Roman lowered the gun slightly.
“Eleanor?”
“She knew the Christmas shipment would reopen the old cellar records.”
“Why Claire?”
“Because no one watches the maid.”
Roman remembered Claire’s careful silence.
Her eyes lowered at dinner.
Invisible.
“Does Claire know?”
“Not everything.”
“Where is Eleanor?”
Damian hesitated.
Then gunfire shattered the harbor lights.
Damian jerked backward.
Blood spread across his shoulder.
“Down!”
Roman dragged him inside.
Enzo fired toward the distant roofline.
The shooter disappeared.
Damian gasped.
Roman pressed cloth against the wound.
“Where is Claire?”
Damian grabbed Roman’s wrist.
“Your house.”
Roman stared.
“She never left.”
“What?”
“The van was staged.”
“Where?”
Damian’s eyes fluttered.
“Old chapel.”
The DeLuca mansion had a private chapel behind the east wing.
Closed for years.
Roman stood.
His phone rang.
Unknown number.
He answered.
Claire whispered, “Roman?”
His heart stopped.
“Claire. Where are you?”
“I don’t know. It’s dark.”
“Can you see anything?”
“A statue. Candles. I think I’m inside the chapel.”
“I’m coming.”
“Wait.”
Her breathing became uneven.
“There’s someone here.”
Roman gripped the phone.
“Claire, hide.”
“I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because they tied my hands.”
A door creaked through the call.
Claire stopped breathing.
Roman heard footsteps.
Then a woman’s voice.
Soft.
Familiar.
“Hello, Claire.”
Claire whispered into the phone:
May you like
“Roman… it’s my mother.”
The call went dead.
