AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Dante steps up beside me, idly examining the photograph still in his grasp. “Shall I arrange accommodations for Miss Clara?” he asks neutrally.
I give a curt nod in reply. “See that it’s done. The girl will ensure her father’s best efforts in this.”
Dante inclines his head. “As you wish.” He turns and melds back into the crowds, off to make the necessary arrangements.
As William’s hunched form disappears into the hazy crowd, I weigh my options. His far-fetched tale of a lost Van Gogh seems dubious, and yet fortune sometimes favors the bold. Either way, the daughter provides insurance on my investment in William’s efforts. For his sake, that painting best be real.
One week. Seven days for William’s luck to finally turn around now, with the highest stakes. And if he fails to recover the lost masterpiece as promised...well, the Ricci family will just have to content itself with alternative payment. I turn and make my way upstairs to my office, anticipation simmering in my veins.
CHAPTER3
CLARA
The massive wrought iron gates of the Ricci mansion loom before me, ornate and imposing. Intricate swirling designs are wrought into the black metal, but no amount of artistry can mask the prison-like nature of the towering barricade as they snap shut behind the sleek black town car that brought me here. The ominous clang seems to echo across the sprawling grounds, sealing my fate. I'm trapped here now, a lamb brought to slaughter.
I step hesitantly out of the car, my nerves coiled tight. The late afternoon sun glints off the ostentatious home, almost blinding in its grandeur. I raise a hand to shield my eyes, squinting up at the imposing edifice. It's enormous, easily four or five times the size of the modest two story craftsman I grew up in. Three towering stories of pale stone and elaborate archways sprawl before me, capped by spires and turrets that make the mansion resemble a medieval castle or fortress. It's meant to impress, to intimidate, and it's working.
My heart hammers in my chest as I trail after the two suited men waiting impatiently for me to exit the vehicle. I take a deep breath, trying to calm my fraying nerves, but it's useless. My hands tremble and my stomach churns with fear. I'm completely out of my depth here.
I'm just a 20-year-old art history student trying to get through college on a scholarship. I don't belong in this world of mafia kings and backroom deals. But my father's gambling addiction has landed me in more trouble than I ever thought possible. He got in too deep at the underground casinos, borrowing extensively to try and win it back. But his debts only multiplied until the amount became staggering - six figures, at least. Maybe more. I don't even know the full extent of what he owes these people.
And now this afternoon, snatched off the street on my way to class and shoved into an unmarked Cadillac with tinted windows. No matter how much I begged them to stop, to tell me what was happening, they just kept driving.
I know enough from whispered rumors to recognize this as the ancestral home of the Riccis, one of the most powerful mafia families on the eastern seaboard. But knowing it and standing here are two very different things. My hands tremble and my mouth goes dry. I'm in over my head. Way over my head.
I trail after the two men waiting impatiently for me, glancing behind me in faint hope that maybe I'll wake up from this nightmare. But the only thing behind me are the huge wrought iron gates, now creaking shut with an ominous groan that echoes across the grounds. The sound slices through the heavy silence, emphasizing how trapped I am. There's no escaping this.
Dante leads the way up the winding driveway, his lean frame swaying with deceptive casualness. The other one - I still don't know his name - follows a pace behind me, so close I can feel his hot breath on my neck whenever I slow my steps. My skin crawls at his proximity. I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, trying not to trip in my nervous state.
As we approach the imposing edifice, my footsteps falter on the gravel. I pause, uncertainty and fear rooting me in place. This is my last chance to run, to try and get away before I'm pulled beyond the point of no return. Every instinct screams at me to flee while I still can.
But before I can even complete the thought, a meaty hand clamps down on my bicep in a viselike grip. "Keep walking," the thug behind me grunts. His stubby fingers dig into my arm as he propels me forward.
I swallow a whimper, anger and embarrassment burning my cheeks. What did I expect? That they'd politely wait while I had a crisis of conscience on the front steps? These people play by an entirely different set of rules. And like it or not, I'm bound by those rules now, too.
Dante pauses by the intricate double doors and throws an annoyed look over his shoulder. His ice blue eyes narrow, flickering between me and the brute's hands wrapped around my arm. "That won't be necessary," he says sharply. "Ms. Thomas is our guest here. See that you remember to treat her as such."
The thug loosens his grip with a scowl, but doesn't let go entirely. I bite my lip to keep from making a sound as his fingers leave bruises in their wake. Finally he releases me and takes a half step back. I resist the urge to rub my aching arm.
Dante waits a beat, as if to ensure his point is made, before turning back to the doors. He pulls one open and gestures for me to enter first with an oily, mocking politeness that raises my hackles. Jaw clenched, I climb the steps and pass through the threshold.
The scent of aged wood polish and fragrant bouquets fills my nose as I step into an expansive entrance hall. My footsteps echo off the marble floors and gilded, coffered ceiling. Crystal chandeliers refract the sunlight into glimmering rainbows across the pale damask wallpaper. Priceless oil paintings in elaborate frames line the walls, interspersed with flickering candles in iron sconces.
It's like stepping into a museum after hours, or a European palace from another century. The home itself is stunning - a flawless blend of old world charm and ostentatious displays of wealth. But there's also something sterile and lifeless about it. It lacks any evidence of real habitation. This isn't a home filled with warmth and memories. It's a lavish mausoleum erected to flaunt the Ricci's power and excess. The dichotomy leaves me unsettled.
I trail after Dante through the cavernous hall, hunching my shoulders against the eyes I can feel crawling over me. Security cameras track our progress from every possible angle. We're never out of sight.
Dante leads me up a curved marble staircase to a lower floor. My fingers trail along the smoothly polished banister as we descend, appreciating the costly woodwork in spite of myself. Dad would love this place, I think bitterly. Or at least all the high end finishes and imported materials. He's always had a fondness for the upscale. Clearly it's a taste he indulged in his gambling activities as well, no matter that we've never lived in anything more than lower class comfort ourselves.
At the bottom of the stairs, Dante ushers me down a long hallway lined with large room-length windows that provide a view of the garden outside. The house stands on a gentle slope, allowing the last light of the setting sun to flood in. More oil paintings adorn the walls here, along with the occasional gilt-framed mirror or side table displaying expensive knick-knacks. We pass several closed doors before arriving at an imposing set of dark wood double doors carved with images of birds in flight.
Dante turns the polished brass handle and pushes the doors open without ceremony. Noise spills out into the hallway - boisterous laughter, the tinkle of glasses, rolling cadences of Italian accents engaged in lively debates.
I take a deep breath that does nothing to steady my pounding heart. Chin lifted in feigned confidence, I follow Dante over the threshold.
The doors open onto a scene straight from a movie about prohibition-era mobsters. It's a grand hall, easily the size of my college's cafeteria. Round tables draped in burgundy linens fill the space, each lit by a flickering candle ensconced in an elaborate gilded holder. Crystal chandeliers hang from the frescoed ceiling, washing the room in warm golden light. The walls are paneled with rich mahogany, the floors gleaming parquet.
At least two hundred people fill the room, clustered around tables laden with decadent foods and bottles of wine. They're dressed to the nines in tailored suits and shimmering cocktail dresses, like guests at a black tie gala. Raucous laughter and heated debates in Italian wash over me. Servers in crisp white shirts navigate between the tables, offering silver platters of bruschetta and champagne flutes.
