Page 36 of The Bonventi Secret
My heart jumps as I feel a slight indentation in the wood. Is this it? I lean in closer, my nose nearly touching the desk's surface. There, almost invisible to the naked eye, is a tiny hole.
With an unsteady hand, I insert the bobby pin. It slides in easily, and I hold my breath, listening for any sign that I’ve triggered the mechanism. Nothing happens.
"Shit," I say, jiggling the pin. Still nothing.
I pull it out and try again, angling it differently this time. My heart pounds so loudly I feel like I can hear my blood moving through my body. What if someone hears? What if Enzo comes back early?
Suddenly, I feel a slight give. The pin sinks in further, and there’s a faint click.
I freeze, my body tense, waiting. For a moment, nothing happens. Then, with a soft whirr, a small compartment slides open.
"Yes!" I whisper in excitement. My eyes widen as I peer inside, but any sense of triumph is quickly replaced by disappointment.The compartment is empty. No hidden message, no secret compartment—just a void.
"Damn it," I whisper.
Just to be sure, I run my fingers along the inside of the compartment, feeling for any hidden latches or false bottoms. Nothing. It’s just smooth, polished wood.
That’s okay, there are still two others,I think to myself.
I push the small hidden compartment closed.
I pull out my phone and look at the image I’ve marked up, selecting my next target.
I move to the second location, a small knot in the wood near the bottom-right drawer. This time, my fingers are steadier as I work the bobby pin into place. I’ve barely inserted it when I hear footsteps in the hallway outside.
Quickly, I scramble to my feet and grab a stack of papers, acting as if I’m reading them. The footsteps grow louder, and I try to steady my breathing. After a few agonizing moments, the sound of footsteps fades, and whoever was walking by the hall has left.
I return to the desk and crouch down again. I take a deep breath, my heart still racing from the close call, but the allure of the hidden compartment pulls me forward. I can’t give up now, not when I’m so close.
This time, I’m quicker with the bobby pin as I work it into the small opening near the bottom-right drawer.
There’s a click, louder than the first, and a larger compartment springs open. I peer inside, but again, disappointment washes over me.
Empty.
"Fuck," I mutter, frustration bubbling up inside me.
Before I can give in to my rage, I run my fingers along the inside of the compartment, probing for any hidden latches, anything that might indicate more than what meets the eye. The wood is smooth, polished, giving nothing away.
I tap. I push.
Nothing.
Wait.
I press my fingers against one wall of the compartment, and there it is.
There’s a slight give, a subtle shift in the wood on one side as I press against it. A false bottom. I push harder, and the thin wood panel in the bottom pops up.
"Holy shit," I whisper, my eyes widening.
There, nestled among the dust, is a worn, leather-bound book. It looks old, and the edges of the pages are yellowed and frayed with age. I blow the dust off and pick it up. I look around the room as if Enzo is standing behind me. I quickly shut the secret compartment and return to my desk.
I flip open the cover, the pages crackling as I do so. The script is faded, but still legible. It seems to be a diary, maybe. There’s a name embossed on the back of the cover. I squint, trying to decipher the name.
“V. Bonventi," I murmur, tracing the letters with my fingertip.
This must have belonged to Enzo’s grandfather, the man he spoke about with such reverence. The man whose desk I was explicitly forbidden from touching.
