So tonight, I took a long walk after dinner and stationed myself in the copse of trees adjacent to the Deep Cellar. I patiently waited for the guards to make their rounds. And after darting through the gate after their UTV passed through, I crouched in the bushes outside the place for half an hour trying to work up the nerve to go inside.
Honestly, I was expecting the heavy wood door of the building to be locked, assuming that my break in would be stymied before it even began. But I knew I had to at least try. And I also knew that the longer I procrastinated, the more likely it was that someone at the house would notice I was missing. It was half past nine, and I’d already been on my “walk” for an hour.
Impossibly, the front door to the Deep Cellar wasn’t locked.
No fucking way, I had thought as I pushed it open. But then I reasoned that the Bellanti estate is already Fort Knox. If you have locks on every window and door, you don’t padlock your jewelry box or your entertainment center, do you?Ergo, if you have a ten-foot security fence surrounding your property, a twenty-four-hour security team, and an additional security fence around your secret cellar, you don’t need to lock it. Maybe. Or maybe I just got lucky.
Now that I’m actually underground, though, my panic is multiplying. What if this is a setup? What if Armani is down here waiting for me? He’s not the kind of man who tolerates being disobeyed. I don’t even want to imagine how he punishes those who don’t follow orders.
Or maybe there are night-vision cameras hidden in every corner, and he’s watching me on CCTV monitors at his security headquarters this very second. I might already be caught and not even know it. All I know is, this was stupidly risky. I need to be quick. Armani had a late dinner meeting tonight, but he’ll still be home by ten. I have less than thirty minutes to do this.
My hands are like ice. Sweat beads at my hairline. By the time I reach the bottom of the stairs, I’m convinced that I’m being followed. There was nothing and nobody in the ground floor foyer, just a couple leather couches and walls lined with shelves of Bellanti wine. Nobody appeared when I opened the door to the stairwell, either. And absolutely nothing happened when I made my way down to this basement level. I should be able to relax at this point…but I can’t. My pulse won’t stop pounding and the tightness in my chest only increases with each step.
What the hell was I thinking? I’m not cut out for this shit. I’m a goddamn amateur.
I’m going to get caught.
The thoughts invade my brain as I start making my way down a hall that’s more like a pitch-black tunnel. The air gets even colder, sending a hard shiver through my body. My hyperawareness shifts as I approach a door. Pausing again to listen for any trace of life or movement, I become more concerned about not being alone down here than about getting caught. The cellar suddenly becomes the set of every horror movie that I’ve ever seen.
Swallowing hard, I force myself to walk up to the door. It has a long glass panel, and I raise my trembling hand up to sweep the inside of the room with the feeble light from my phone. What I see is…wine.
Racks and racks and racks of wine, from floor to ceiling. There must be hundreds of bottles in this one little room. No wonder it’s so cold down here. The Deep Cellar is a literal cellar full of wine.
Starting to relax, I pass more doors on the left and right, each revealing another room packed with wine racks. This place must hold a freaking fortune in wine.
I finally feel comfortable turning on my flashlight app. The small beam doesn’t do much for the gloom, but it’s better than my phone screen. I’m satisfied there’s nothing worth reporting down here, no scandals and no secrets, but I check every door just to do my due diligence.
At the end of the hall, the final door reveals another set of stairs going down. Okay…
My lips flatten into a thin line, my pulse picking back up as I make my way down to what must be a second cellar. A subcellar. Is this therealDeep Cellar? A bad feeling creeps over me, my scalp tingling as a vaguely familiar, faintly metallic scent reaches me. And…maybe bleach.
I could turn back, but I’ve come this far, and I have to know what Armani is hiding. All information is good information, after all, and I’m not going to get any by pussying out.
Tightly gripping the metal railing, I descend down, down, down. Breathing hard. Throat burning with nausea. Finally, I reach the bottom. There’s a heavy, arched wood door with thick hinges and no windows, reminding me of a dungeon. With a shaking hand, I open it and step into a huge, cold, echoing room.
It’s actually more like a catacomb, with three arched hallway openings, stacks of wine barrels and more racks of bottles, and a concrete floor. Two bare bulbs hang from metal cages overhead. I sweep my phone flashlight around and see a lone chair sitting in the center of the room. Odd. The best I can tell, it’s just a nondescript folding chair with a metal frame.
Moving closer, I notice dark stains on the floor around the chair. Leaning even closer, my flashlight reveals the stains are a deep, burgundy brown color. Like spilled wine. Or…blood.
The horror movie flashbacks return and I swallow hard, imagining someone strapped to that chair, thrashing and groaning through a duct tape gag.
“Jesus Christ.”
Measuring my breath, I move past the chair, panic twisting my gut.
What if Armani didn’t want me down here because theytorture peoplehere?
My need to find out something juicy about the Bellantis curdles in my veins and my knees turn to jelly. I need to get out of here. But this isn’t enough. I need something solid.
Turning my phone flashlight toward one of the arched doorways, I steel myself to investigate…just one more door. Just to know for sure.
Pressure expands beneath my diaphragm. I’m going to puke. This started out as a stupid little investigative adventure, but now it’s something else entirely. Striding with a confidence I don’t feel through the doorway, I grab the handle of the first door I see and pull it open before I lose my nerve. The yawning space holds the sound of thinly dripping water.Drip, drip, drip.
Instead of another folding chair, this room holds what looks like a medical table. Four straps loop along the center, and I see chained bonds for arms and legs. A metal table on the left holds a canvas roll bag. The kind mobsters use in the movies to carry tools and instruments of torture. If I unrolled it, I’m sure I’d find all sort of wicked, sharp things. Fuck.
Sweat runs down my spine as I draw back from the threshold, my light catching another dark stain on the floor beside the bed. It’s impressive in size, and I swear it expands before my very eyes. A puddle of blood, growing, stretching, reaching for me…and there’s no mistaking the smell of blood and urine in here, and something…burnt. Hair? Skin? Whatever it is, the smell is strong enough that it must be recent. Bile rises in my throat.
Pulling the door closed, I bolt back the way I came, pulse rushing in my ears. I don’t slow down until I get to the stairs and then I race up them, no longer caring if anyone hears me. Who’s going to? They torture people down here precisely because no one can hear their screams.
