Chapter 8 – THE DRAWING WITH THE RED DOOR

I stared at the drawing, the blood draining from my face.

The house was locked down. Dante had doubled the perimeter guards after the Moretti attack. No one could have slipped into my bedroom to leave a child’s drawing on my pillow.

Unless they were already inside.

I ran out into the hallway, clutching the paper. “Dante!”

Dante appeared at the top of the stairs almost instantly, his suit jacket discarded, his tie loose. The alarm in his eyes flared the moment he saw my pale face. He closed the distance between us in three strides.

“What’s wrong? Are you in pain?” he asked, his hands hovering protectively over my arms.

“No,” I gasped, holding up the drawing. “I found this on my bed. Just now.”

Dante took the paper. His dark eyes scanned the red crayon house, the jagged letters. I expected him to call for Marco. I expected him to draw his weapon and sweep the house.

Instead, Dante went perfectly still. His jaw slackened, and a profound, haunting sadness washed over his face.

“Dante?” I whispered. “Who left it?”

“She did,” a frail voice said from the shadows.

Henry wheeled himself out of his bedroom, his eyes fixed on the drawing in his son’s hand. The old man’s hands began to tremble violently.

“I thought she was dead,” Henry whispered, tears instantly spilling down his wrinkled cheeks. “Twenty years, Dante. I thought she was in the ground.”

“Who?” I asked, looking between them.

“Elena,” Dante said, his voice barely a rasp. “My older sister.”

I stared at him in shock. “You have a sister? You never mentioned her. Nobody here ever speaks about her.”

“Because it was forbidden,” Henry said, wheeling himself closer, reaching out a shaking hand to touch the drawing. “When the war with the Morettis started twenty years ago, Elena fell in love with one of them. A Moretti underboss. When my wife, Margaret, found out, she was furious. She banished Elena from the family. Stripped her of the Romano name and threw her out.”

Dante looked at the red door on the drawing. “When our mother died, I tried to find her. But the trail went cold. The Morettis told us she died in a car crash in Sicily.”

“She didn’t die,” I said, shivering despite the warmth of the hallway. “She’s alive. And she was in this house.”

“Not Elena,” Dante corrected, looking closely at the jagged handwriting. “Elena is forty-five years old. This was drawn by a child. A young child.”

“Her daughter,” Henry breathed, covering his mouth. “My granddaughter.”

“But how did she get past the guards?” I asked.

“The servant’s passages,” Dante realized, looking toward the hidden paneling in the walls. “The old architecture of this house. Only family knows about them. Elena must have taught her daughter how to navigate them.”

Dante turned the paper over. On the back, written in the same red crayon, was a time and a location.

Midnight. The greenhouse.

Dante looked at his watch. It was 11:45 PM.

“Marco!” Dante shouted down the stairs.

Marco appeared at the bottom landing. “Boss?”

“Keep the perimeter secure. Nobody enters or leaves. But do not sweep the interior. I need the grounds quiet.”

“Understood.”

Dante looked at me. “Stay here with my father.”

“No,” I said firmly, crossing my arms over my chest. “I am family now. You said it yourself. I’m going with you.”

Dante opened his mouth to argue, but saw the stubborn fire in my eyes. He sighed, a faint, affectionate smile touching his lips. “You are definitely Arturo’s daughter. Fine. Stay behind me.”

We walked out into the cool night air. The gardens were bathed in moonlight. At the edge of the property sat a massive, glass-domed greenhouse, overgrown with ivy and wild roses.

Dante pushed the heavy glass door open. The air inside was warm and smelled of damp earth and blooming jasmine.

“Elena?” Dante called out softly into the shadows.

Silence.

Then, a rustling sound came from behind a row of tall ferns.

Dante stepped forward, putting his arm out to shield me.

A figure stepped into the moonlight filtering through the glass roof. It wasn’t a child.

It was a woman in her mid-forties, wearing a dark trench coat. Her dark hair was streaked with gray, but she had Dante’s piercing eyes and Henry’s proud jawline.

“Hello, little brother,” Elena said softly.

Dante froze. “Elena. You’re alive.”

Elena didn’t smile. She looked exhausted, haunted by years of running. “I didn’t come for a reunion, Dante. I came to warn you.”

“Warn me about what?” Dante asked. “The drawing said ‘they are coming.’ Who is coming?”

Elena looked at me, her eyes lingering on my pregnant belly.

“The FBI,” Elena said, her voice grave. “Mark Hayes didn’t just call the Morettis tonight. When Vivienne offered him a payout, he panicked. He went to the federal authorities three days ago. He gave them probable cause to raid this estate.”

My stomach plummeted. Mark had worn a wire? He had sold us to the government before he even tried to sell us to the cartel?

“They’re coming at dawn, Dante,” Elena said, stepping closer. “They have warrants. They have a tactical team. They are coming to tear this house apart to find the Genesis ledger. If you are here when the sun comes up, you will spend the rest of your life in federal prison.”