The beam of a strong flashlight cut through the darkness, sweeping across the concrete floor.

It illuminated the puddle of water near the drain, then flickered over the stacked wooden crates.

Heavy leather boots stepped into the room, their soles grinding against the grit.

I recognized the scent that entered the room with him: stale tobacco and wet wool.

It was Santo, Luca’s personal driver and enforcer.

He took two slow steps toward the center of the basement, his flashlight beam slicing the air.

“Mrs. Conti?” Santo’s voice was low and gravelly.

He sounded annoyed, his voice bouncing off the low concrete ceiling.

“I know you’re down here,” he said, his footsteps turning toward the storage shelves.

The flashlight beam bounced off the metal furnace just three feet away from our hiding spot.

I squeezed my eyes shut, praying the deep shadows of the alcove would hold us.

My left hand, pressed against the wall behind me, felt the uneven surface of the old bricks.

I slid my fingers along the rough, crumbling mortar until I felt the loose edge.