18. Bianca
Bianca
My first yoga flow in weeks brings some much-needed mental clarity to my stalled book hunt.
Giovanni’s house is old. In fact, during the extensive background check I conducted after learning about my impending nuptials, I discovered the manor is listed on the National Register of Historic Places.
An honorific, mostly, but one that means the home was protected from certain renovations over the years.
What does any of that have to do with the book?
Well, this area of Midtown is notoriously connected to early twentieth century mafia, and old-world crime bosses didn’t rely on digital encryption to protect their empires.
They relied on stone, iron, and misdirection.
Somewhere impenetrable to store their most valuable possessions and most dangerous weapons.
The house even features a strongroom.
And that’s where I’ll find the book.
I spend the next two days investigating the walls for unusual seams and the bookcases for secret levers.
I even covertly uproot a peaked-looking Boxwood in the backyard garden in search of a trapdoor and walk away with nothing but a broken nail.
On my way back inside, I run into Mrs. Vianello and quickly tuck my hands behind me. She cocks a brow, her assessing eyes flicking down to the mud I’ve tracked onto her freshly-mopped kitchen floor. “Been doing some gardening, Mrs. Argento?”
I choke on a laugh while grasping for a believable lie. This stuff doesn’t come as naturally to me as it does to my husband. “Oh, uh, no. I—”
She snatches my wrist from behind me and lifts my dirt-stained hand between us, her brow arching even higher as she inspects my broken nail.
Briefly, I picture her cornering Marco as a child, the cookie he stole in one hand as he attempted to stutter out some excuse. The thought warms my chest.
I straighten. Hold up. Mrs. Vianello has been around a long time. She’s been around this house a long time. If anyone can pinpoint the location of the Argento strongroom, it’s her.
I plaster on a sad smile while reclaiming my hand.
“Actually, I lost my grandmother’s ring.
” I twist the engraved gold band with the small ruby stone, silently thanking whoever’s listening that I slipped it on this morning.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for it and remembered I’d had lunch in the garden the other day.
It must have slipped off when I was admiring Dulce’s beautiful violet asters. ”
The housekeeper’s expression softens at the mention of Dulce. She nods, reaching out more gently for my hand to admire the piece of jewelry. “Ah. Good thing you found it. You don’t see rubies much anymore.”
I hum. “Yes. You know, it’s always been a little too big, but I can’t find a spare moment to get it resized. Is there a secure spot in the house where I could store it in the meantime? A safe or…”
I widen my eyes, maintaining my innocent guise so she won’t suspect I’m prying for valuable information.
“Of course, Mrs. Argento. You can use the vault.”
“The vault?” My heart starts beating too quickly.
“In the strongroom.” Mrs. Vianello tilts my hand left to right as she continues to examine the ring.
“Marco hasn’t been down there since he moved in full-time, but as his wife, you have just as much right to store your things there as anyone else in this family.
If you pull back the top right corner of the rug in the study, you’ll find a trap door with a small gold latch engraved into the wood. ”
I rein in my excitement and offer her a demure smile. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Vianello. I’ll be sure to look into it.”
I wait until dinner is over and Marco has left for the night to attend a party before putting my plan into action, though I don’t head directly to Marco’s office.
Zo continues to trail me like a good soldier these days, seemingly unfazed by the kidnapping fiasco.
I respect a man who can take a tire iron to the back of the head without getting huffy about it afterward.
Since our agreement, Marco only expects Zo to check in once an hour now instead of every fifteen minutes, which means I just need a distraction that will keep Zo busy long enough for me to access the strongroom.
During my first week here, I learned the hard way that a hairdryer, a hair straightener, and a phone charger in the socket next to my bathroom sink will effectively kill power to half of the house.
By that math, one hairdryer plus one semi-full clawfoot bathtub should equal—
The circuit pops as soon as my Ella Bella Ionic hair dryer touches the water.
Electricity ricochets, and the house goes dark.
Outside my bedroom door, where he’s waiting patiently for me to finish my nightly soak, Zo swears.
He calls through the wood. “I’ll be right back, Mrs. Argento. Please wait here.”
“Of course.” I let my own voice warble as if from fear. Zo curses again before stomping down the staircase. He heads straight to the basement to check the breaker box, which means I only have ten minutes before he realizes that this is a problem that will take more than a flipped switch to fix.
I wait until it’s quiet, then I open the bathroom door, creep through my bedroom, and travel down to the study.
Using the housekeeper’s instructions, I peel back the rug near the desk.
The first thing I notice is the handle camouflaged by a groove in the floor.
Just like she said. I tug, and the hatch swings open with ease.
I peer into the secret room. Armed with my phone flashlight, I descend a set of stairs built into cinderblock walls that creak beneath my careful steps, and the faint scent of Lysol mixes with the cold dampness of a space used to protect generations of mafia secrets.
There’s a simple round wooden table with files scattered on top and a flat screen television against one wall.
Slightly smaller than one of the guest rooms in the main part of the house, the room contains food, water, blankets, and a wall of guns and ammunition.
I skip it all and keep searching. My flashlight’s circular glow casts everything outside of its beam into deeper shadow, so I don’t see the Renaissance painting until the moment I pan across it.
I can’t tell if The Miracle of Saint Mark hanging on the wall is original or fake.
Considering Dulce was an art thief and accomplished forger, either is a possibility.
Striding over to the painting, I check the frame.
Sure enough, it swings out to reveal a safe about the size of a mini fridge built into the cinderblocks.
Removing my watch, I carefully disengage the back panel.
Made of thermite, the tiny metal disk has a slim, double-sided adhesive on one side.
I fasten my watch back in place and press the disk right against the vault’s lock.
The mechanism itself is more modern than what I came equipped to handle, but that won’t matter soon.
Digging out Marco’s lighter that I stole after dinner, I flick the igniter and hold the flame to one side of the thermite.
A flash of white-hot, almost blue light plumes outward, allowing me just enough time to retreat to the far side of the room and shield my eyes.
I duck my head as the light brightens, the thermite bursting into flame.
In solid form, the acid only reacts when exposed to fire. When that happens, the thermite can blaze over four thousand degrees Fahrenheit, easily melting through most metals.
The transformation is quick, vicious, and over in an instant as the chemicals that started the fire in the first place burn off. The vault door doesn’t stand a chance. As soon as the reaction dies down and the last sputter fizzles away, I finally approach the safe.
Knowing better than to touch the metal with my bare hands, I scour the area until I find a bowie knife on the weapons rack and use that to open the safe.
Marco still hasn’t returned my blade, but I’m not even sure I want it back because the memories of what he used it for are still too vivid.
Keeping the bowie knife seems like a fair enough trade, though the design is more utilitarian than I prefer.
With my heart drumming a mile a minute, I peek inside. A couple of million in cash, folders with IDs and birth certificates, several deeds, and…tucked in the back, beneath a stack of aged letters from Dulce Conti…rests the book.
I snatch it so hastily, my fingers skim still-hot metal.
The pain barely registers as I eagerly flip open the book.
I did it. After years of frustration and planning and resentment, I finally pulled it off.
Aldo’s been searching for this since Dulce first ran off and married Giovanni, but every attempt to steal it back from the Argentos resulted in failure and casualties.
My smile threatens to grow too big, but here in the dark, I let it stretch across my face rather than fight it back.
I’ve earned this grin. I can’t wait to tell Father.
When I try to imagine his expression, my mind blanks.
He’s never gazed at me with pride or even love, so it’s difficult to picture either.
Succumbing to temptation, I immediately scan the pages, one after the other, disbelief and frustration growing until they eclipse the triumph.
No. This is wrong. Contis always use a code when communicating, and the content of this book is plaintext.
In many cases, the finer details surrounding things like bank accounts and foreign connections are deciphered incorrectly.
I suppose it makes sense. If the Argentos had accurate information this entire time, there would have been nothing stopping them from wiping us out sooner.
Did Dulce mistranslate in places on purpose? Or maybe she grabbed the wrong copy when she left? Perhaps a lingering sense of loyalty prevented her from selling out her adoptive family completely, though none of that matters now. Which begs the question.
If this is the copy, where’s the real deal?
My teeth sink into my bottom lip as I tidy up and close the safe.
I can’t hide the breach, but the painting will help shield the damage to the lock.
Marco barely has a handle on Argento business, so I don’t foresee him venturing into this space anytime soon.
I should be done with my mission for Father long before such a need arises.
I’ve wasted enough time. Zo will be looking for me before long, and he can’t find me here.
I clamber out of the secret stronghold and close the trapdoor soundlessly behind me.
As I straighten, a photo on the bookshelf catches my eye.
I wander over to a picture of Giovanni and Dulce standing outside of a familiar building.
As I absorb the details, realization strikes in one fell swoop.
They’re outside the Council’s Library.
My mind flips through possibilities. Maybe the actual book isn’t in the Argentos’ possession at all?
As a family under the Council’s protection, the Argentos would have access to the Library in a way that a Conti wouldn’t.
If Gio was worried about someone stealing the book back, the Council’s archives would be the most secure place to lock it away.
Cursing beneath my breath, I leave the office behind, carefully replacing the rug to cover up any traces of my infiltration.
I run into Zo on the stairs, and though he shows signs of exasperation over me abandoning the bathroom, he doesn’t appear to suspect my treachery.
He informs me an electrician can’t fix the power until morning, so we’ll spend the rest of the night in the dark.
Marco never shows up, and I’m both relieved to have one less headache to deal with and oddly disappointed. I haven’t fussed over his comings and goings, but lately, I’ve noticed myself wishing he was around more, though I don’t care to explore the reason why.
Not even a teensy bit.
Returning to my room after assuring Zo I’ll stay put, I light a few candles before walking to the window and gazing down at the street. I know what I have to do next, and I’m terrified, but putting it off will worsen the situation.
Picking up my phone, I dial my father.
“You found it.” Not a question. An expectation.
I squeeze my eyes shut and swallow hard. “It wasn’t where I thought it would be, but I have a lead. I just—”
“I thought you actually gave a shit about your sister. I see now that I was mistaken.” His voice lands like a stone between us.
The protective shell around me splinters, and sick fear strangles my midsection. There’s no use in sharing what happened. A failure is a failure in his eyes, and he’ll just interpret anything I say as an excuse. Still, I can’t stop myself from trying to reason with him. “Father—”
“Giacomo will break her neck just like he did with his last wife.” Aldo may as well be talking about the weather for all the emotion he exhibits. “If I’m lucky, Marco will do the same with you and save me the trouble of killing you myself.”
“I can fix this.” I don’t tremble at his venomous tone, though I want to.
He’s said worse but never followed through.
Then again, he’s also never been pushed this far before.
“Just give me a little more time.” Father doesn’t respond, and to my shame, a plea forces its way past my numb lips. “Please.”
The silence extends for another thirty seconds. Then, Aldo exhales sharply. “You have a week. I won’t be so generous again.”
The line goes dead. I stare at the phone until my blurred vision sharpens once more.
As far as I can tell, I have two options. I either find a way into one of the Council’s most secure locations, the Library, or I murder Marco and inherit the Argentos outright.
I’m surprised by how quickly I dismiss the second idea, and not just because Aldo didn’t approve it yet.
At one point before the wedding, Father concocted an entire plan that involved copious amounts of alcohol, a woman disguised as a sex worker, and fentanyl laced party favors, but the thought of Marco dying pitches my stomach with alarming force.
Probably because I fear the Council would see right through such a setup…
or at least, that’s the lie I attempt to sell myself.
Regardless, I can’t let Marco distract me any longer. This game we’re playing at is nothing when Livia’s life is on the line.
I wish I could forget all my worries for a while and just enjoy myself. Has that ever even happened? Me truly relaxing without an endless list of stressors weighing me down?
Surely shutting my mind off and going with the flow just once isn’t too much to ask.