Chapter 3 - The Blood on the Infirmary Floor
The cold silence of the sealed annex was broken only by the mechanical hum of the oxygen machine pumping air into Eleanor's lungs.
I checked her pulse once more, confirming that her heartbeat was stable before pulling the wool blanket up to her chin.
My mind was working with terrifying, ice-cold clarity.
Every lie that Marcus Duca had spun during my youth was unraveling like cheap thread in a hurricane.
My father had not been an honorable patriarch protecting an ancient dynasty; he had been a domestic warden who imprisoned his own sister to conceal his financial crimes.
And now, my cousin Julian—a man who sat across from me at our corporate board meetings with a smile on his polished face—had brought violence into my private sanctuary.
I stepped back through the hidden doorway into the bright light of my study, pulling the walnut bookcase shut until only a hairline seam remained.
Mia was still standing precisely where I had left her, holding the arm of the leather chair with both hands.
When she saw me emerge alone, her large brown eyes darted to my empty hands, then back to my face with quiet apprehension.
"Is the crying lady sick, Mister Duca?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
I walked over to the desk, opened the bottom drawer, and pulled out an unopened box of shortbread biscuits and a bottle of spring water I kept for late nights.
I knelt down before her, uncapping the water and handing her two biscuits with an intentional gentleness that belied the rage burning in my veins.
"The lady is very tired, Mia, but she is safe now because you were brave enough to tell me she was there," I told her.
The child stared at the food for a second before taking it with hesitant, respectful fingers.
She didn't eat immediately; instead, she reached around to break off a small, soft corner of the biscuit to slip it into her sleeping sister's tiny hand.
That simple, instinctual act of selfless protection made the knot in my throat tighten painfully.
"Did a man with silver hair and a gray coat come to your quarters tonight, Mia?" I asked, keeping my tone smooth and unthreatening.
Mia froze, a biscuit halfway to her mouth, her eyes darkening with an ancient fear that no child should ever possess.
"Mister Higgins," she whispered, her voice dropping to a barely audible rasp.
"The head butler."
"He came to the basement apartment while Mama was warming Lily's milk."
"He told Mama that Mister Julian wanted her in the second-floor clinic immediately for an inventory check."
"Mama told me to stay in the room and lock the bolt, but... but twenty minutes later, I heard crashing upstairs."
"Then Mister Higgins came back down alone."
She looked up at me, tears spilling freely over her lower eyelids now.
"He smelled like bitter smoke, Mister Duca."
"He had blood on the cuff of his white shirt."
"He took our front door key off the hook and told me that if I didn't take Mama's cleaning cart and do every single chore on the third floor before sunrise, the police would come and put Mama in jail forever."
"He said you would throw Lily and me into the frozen harbor because we were dirty parasites."
I closed my eyes for a single second, letting the pure, unfiltered fury wash over me until it crystallized into lethal determination.
Vance Higgins had served as the estate butler for fifteen years, a man hired by my father who prided himself on flawless manners and unyielding discretion.
He was not just an employee who had overstepped his bounds; he was Julian's paid accomplice inside my home.
"Mia, listen to me very carefully," I said, looking directly into her wide, innocent eyes.
"You and Lily are never going to be thrown out into the snow."
"Nobody is going to call the police on your mother, and nobody is ever going to speak to you like that again in this house."
"Do you understand me?"
She gave a single, hesitant nod, clutching the half-eaten biscuit against her chest.
I stood up, walked to the study door, and locked the secondary deadbolt that only my master key could turn from the outside.
"Stay in this room with your sister," I commanded softly.
"Eat the biscuits. If you hear loud noises outside, stay behind the heavy leather chair. I will be back with your mother."
I stepped out into the corridor and closed the heavy oak door behind me, locking it securely with the brass key.
My first stop was not the basement.
I descended the stairs to the second floor, my senses heightened to every subtle shift in the drafty hallway.
The sliver of amber light beneath the private infirmary door was still glowing in the dark wing.
I reached the door, took the brass lever in my right hand, and twisted it without knocking.
The room was unlocked.
I pushed the door open, stepping into the sterile white space that had once served as my father's private hospice during his final months of cancer.
The scene inside was one of violent, desperate struggle.
A stainless steel instrument trolley had been overturned against the tiled wall, scattering glass ampoules, surgical clamps, and plastic syringes across the marble floor.
Near the examination table, a bottle of dark brown antiseptic had shattered, its pungent, medicinal odor overwhelming the cold room.
And there, pooled near the base of the secondary supply cabinet, were several distinct, fresh smears of crimson blood.
Some of the blood was smeared in handprints along the white wall, indicating that someone had been dragged violently toward the service corridor.
I crouched down by the dark tiles, touching the edge of the deepest stain with the tip of my index finger.
The blood was still warm and tacky to the touch; the incident had occurred less than forty minutes before I arrived home.
Beside the broken glass of the trolley, tucked half-underneath the baseboard of the drug cabinet, lay a small, battered leather notebook with a torn strap.
I picked it up, recognizing Grace's neat, beautiful cursive script across the cloth-bound cover.
I opened the first page, expecting to find household expenses or medication schedules.
Instead, the first entry, dated five years ago, made my blood run cold in my veins.
"Julian cornered me in the scullery again," the entry read.
"He knows Eleanor is alive in the annex. He told me that if I ever tell Roman the truth about the trust, he will ensure both of my daughters disappear into the foster system where nobody will ever find them."
"He demanded I give him the master ledger from the wall safe before the annual shareholder audit."
"I cannot betray Eleanor. She is the only innocent soul left in this cursed family. May God forgive me for the lies I tell every single day to protect my babies."
I snapped the journal shut, slipping it deep into the breast pocket of my coat next to my heart.
Grace Harper was not a passive victim who had stumbled into a family feud.
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She had been fighting a private, heroic war against the wolves of the Duca dynasty for five long years to keep my aunt alive and her own children safe.
And now, they had taken her down into the subterranean passages of the estate to finish what my father started.
