Page 104 of Salvatore

Aside from the stairs, there’s nothing more than storage shelves, metal cabinets, a surgical bed, and what looks to be medical equipment. It’s a makeshift triage room just like the one my uncle had when I was younger—a necessary part of the criminal life—but an extremely sterile and unfit space to send your house manager while a guest enjoys the meals she’s created.

From what I can see, there isn’t even a chair for her to relax in.

Does she sit on the stairs while balancing the tray on her lap? Or have I just stepped into the wrong room?

I pull the door shut and glance farther along the hall. The next closest door is yards away. My perception can’t bethatoff. Can it?

I stew on the absurdity as I shower and then dress in my pajamas.

I lie in bed and consider whether the after-effects of trauma have made me a little cracked. And once the thought of sleep is overridden by a growing avalanche of unanswered questions, I throw back the covers and stalk into the hall for another look.

This time I turn on the basement light and crouch at the top of the steps, taking in every aspect of the downstairs space—the heart monitor machine thingy, and the large overhead surgical light that implies some serious shit gets taken care of below ground level. I scan every one of the industrial shelfs from my perched view, then stop at the one on the far side of the room that looks to be sitting at an odd angle away from the wall.

I lean closer. Tilt my head. Still, the metal shelving unit appears out of place.

I creep down the first few steps to take a better look, but even from this lower vantage point my perception doesn’t shift theshelves. The cabinet definitely isn’t positioned against the wall. It’s way off at the far end.

I keep staring at it. Keep trying to figure out if my eyes are playing tricks on me or if this entire situation is a wild goose chase because of some, hopefully temporary, messed up visual judgment.

Jesus Christ, just take a goddamn look.

I sigh, resigned not to get any sleep until I check it out, and descend the remaining stairs, the slightly colder air seeping beneath my full-length silken pajamas. And when I reach the basement floor with the cold concrete sinking into the soles of my feet, that damn metal cabinet still doesn’t look right.

I cross the basement toward it, passing IV stands and a defibrillator, the entire house silent apart from the swish of my pants as I move. But with each step, I realize my perception isn’t mangled at all.

The cabinet is angled away from the wall, just enough to be a raging OCD trigger.

Why in the hell?—

I peek behind the metal cabinet, only to snap rigid at the dark passage tucked behind it.

It’s the opening to something private. Something potentially illegal.

There’s a small PIN-code panel embedded into the wall right before the start of the passage, a thick steel door already retracted into the cavity.

Shit.

I have a sinking feeling the metal cabinet isn’t meant to be sitting askew. The thick steel door shouldn’t be open.

Quietly I inch back, preparing to lock this memory in another one of the boxes in the back of my mind, never to be retrieved again, but then shuffling sounds from the darkness.

“Hello?” an accented woman asks from the void. “Is someone there?”

22

IVY

All the blooddrains from my face.

I shouldn’t be down here—not in a mafia boss’s basement, poised at the entrance of a secret passage.

“Is that you, Catarina?” The woman’s words hold an Italian accent, the older, weathered tone gaining an annoyed edge. “I can see you standing there.”

Whatever this woman can see can’t be much because I definitely don’t possess the shorter, more rotund stature of the house manager.

Regardless, I’ve been caught.

Fuck.

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