Chapter 1 - The Shadow on the Marble
“Get that filthy chair out of here before Luca sees it.”
Vanessa Bellini’s voice was like crushed glass beneath silk: refined, polished, and razor-sharp. It slid across the three-thousand-square-foot foyer of Moretti Manor, echoing against the imported Calacatta marble that gleamed beneath a cascading waterfall of Austrian crystal. Twenty-eight guests, draped in couture and diamonds worth more than the gross domestic product of a small island, turned their heads in a synchronized ripple of polite amusement.
I tightened my grip on the rubber handles of the wheelchair and kept moving.
Every single step sent a shuddering spike of agony up my left forearm. The white linen bandage I had wound around the joint less than thirty minutes ago was already blooming with a sickening patch of deep crimson, wet and hot against the rough polyester of my maid’s uniform. My elbow joint felt as though it had been levered open with an iron crowbar. I could feel the rhythmic, sickening throb of torn flesh beneath the sleeve, hot with fever and dirt, but I could not let go.
If I dropped the chair, I dropped my livelihood.
My name is Sophie Bennett. I was twenty-nine years old, possessing an ancient degree in art history that had yielded nothing but student loans, a bank balance that sat mockingly at forty-six dollars until the direct deposit cleared on Friday, and a job as the junior interior maid at Luca Moretti’s Gold Coast estate in Chicago. Forty-six dollars. That was one box of generic cereal, four gallons of milk, a half-tank of unleaded fuel for my sputtering Civic, and zero margins for error. Losing this position did not mean looking for another job on Monday; it meant an eviction notice taped to my studio door before the week was out.
So when Vanessa—standing beneath the three-tiered chandelier in a floor-length scarlet gown that clung to her silhouette like a second, predatory skin—flicked her French-manicured hand and ordered me to clear the floor, I bowed my head and dragged the steel-framed chair forward.
I should not have been in the foyer. I should have been three flights up, in the darkened sewing room of the attic wing where the floorboards groaned under old cedar trunks. I should have been guarding the woman who had collapsed against my chest only forty minutes earlier, weeping into the collar of my apron.
*“Don't let her take me, Sophie,”* Mrs. Caterina Moretti had gasped, her fingers digging with surprising strength into my ribs before the sedatives had stolen her speech. *“The papers on the desk... she doesn't want Luca to see the accounts. She’s bringing the van. Look at her eyes, Sophie. Look at the dress. It’s the color of blood.”*
“Honestly, Sophie,” Vanessa’s voice carried over the lilting notes of the string quartet stationed beside the grand piano. She offered a sparkling, apologetic laugh to Julian Vance, a silver-haired city commissioner standing at her elbow. “How difficult is it to move one simple chair? One would think pushing furniture was within the realm of your modest talents.”
A low murmur of laughter rippled through the gathered elite. Julian chuckled, sipping a vintage Barolo that Luca kept in the climate-controlled cellar beneath the foundations.
My teeth ground together so hard my jaw ached. I aligned the chair toward the arched corridor leading to the service pantries. The front caster wheels, bent slightly from the struggle in the back stairwell half an hour ago, hitched against the thick wool pile of the antique Persian runner.
I leaned my weight forward, trying to use my shoulder rather than my left arm.
The pain was an explosion behind my eyes. My injured elbow gave out with a sickening, liquid tremor. The wheelchair tipped sideways. Its chromium-plated footrest caught the edge of a mahogany console table, sending a hand-blown Murano vase rocking violently before the entire contraption crashed onto the polished marble with a thunderous, echoing clatter that sounded like a gunshot.
The string quartet died in mid-measure.
A collective gasp sucked the air from the grand hall.
Vanessa’s laughter vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, venomous disgust that she quickly veiled behind an exasperated sigh for the benefit of her audience. She closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her perfectly contoured nose, and took a breath.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” she muttered, loud enough to ensure the entire room felt her gracious burden. “Apparently, paying someone an honest wage to perform a menial task is asking far too much of the lower classes.”
A few of the society women looked away, uncomfortable not with her cruelty, but with the vulgarity of the scene. Julian Vance shook his head, murmuring something about the modern workforce lacking discipline.
I dropped to my knees immediately, the cold marble biting through the fabric of my trousers. The smell of copper from my arm was thick in my nose, mingling with the heavy scent of Vanessa’s tuberose perfume.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I whispered, my voice trembling from the effort not to cry out as I reached with my good right hand to right the heavy frame. “I am so sorry. It won't happen again.”
“Leave it.”
The voice cut through the cavernous foyer like a guillotine.
It did not come from Vanessa, nor from any of the guests. It came from the towering, double-leaf oak doors at the entrance of the estate.
My stomach plummeted straight through the floor.
Luca Moretti stood on the threshold.
He was thirty-nine years old, broad-shouldered, and draped in a charcoal-black bespoke suit that made him look less like a corporate titan and more like an old-world monarch returning to a rebellious province. Rain from the Chicago lakefront glistened on the shoulders of his wool overcoat and clung to the dark strands of his swept-back hair. His jaw was square, shaded by a day’s worth of dark stubble, and his eyes—the color of slate over deep water—held the kind of terrifying, unblinking stillness that made multi-millionaire board members fall silent mid-sentence.
He was not supposed to be here until eight o’clock. The private summit at the Drake Hotel was supposed to run through dinner.
Yet there he stood at seven-fifteen, peeling his leather gloves from his hands with slow, deliberate precision.
Behind him, two armed security men in dark suits stepped into the perimeter shadows, their hands resting loosely at their belts.
Vanessa’s face transformed in a fraction of a second. The sneer melted into an intoxicating, luminous smile as she gathered her crimson skirts and glided across the marble, arms slightly outstretched.
“Luca! Darling!” Her voice was melodic, warm, overflowing with the effortless affection of an adored fiancée. “We thought your meeting with the maritime commission would keep you until late! Look at you—you must be utterly frozen. Come inside, Julian and the senators have been dying to toast the merger.”
Luca did not look at her outstretched hands. He did not look at her crimson dress. He barely registered the room of twenty-eight elite guests who had collectively straightened their posture at the mere draft of wind he brought with him.
His gaze was fixed entirely on me.
More specifically, on the ragged edge of my left cuff, where a dark, wet stain had spread across the white cotton, dripping a single, unmistakable bead of red onto the pale marble.
“Sophie,” he said. The word was quiet, devoid of inflection, yet it carried an undertow that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
I froze on my knees beside the overturned wheelchair, my right hand gripping the metal spoke. “Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“What happened to your arm?”
Before I could inhale, Vanessa stepped neatly between us, placing a manicured palm on Luca’s lapel. She gave a light, tinkling laugh that sounded like porcelain cracking underfoot.
“Oh, darling, don't mind her. Sophie had a little mishap in the carriage house earlier—she caught her sleeve on the track of the garage door while helping the caterers unload the extra ice. I’ve already told her twice to see the first-aid kit in the pantry and stop making such a dramatic fuss in front of our guests. She’s been clumsy all afternoon, poor thing.”
Luca’s slate-colored eyes shifted slowly from my face to Vanessa’s hand on his chest. He looked at her fingers for three long seconds until she, sensing the frigid chill beneath his stillness, slowly let her hand drop away.
“The carriage house?” Luca repeated. His tone was dangerously mild.
“Yes,” Vanessa replied, her smile not faltering by a millimeter. “You know how heavy those old mechanical rollers are.”
I kept my eyes pinned to the floor, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
That was Vanessa’s first fatal mistake.
The carriage house garage doors were state-of-the-art hydraulic lifts installed by Luca’s private contractors four months ago. They had no exposed tracks, no chains, and no manual rollers. And more importantly, I had been assigned strictly to the third-floor private quarters for the last three weeks; the estate steward had explicitly barred me from the exterior catering bays.
Luca knew every square inch of this property. He had supervised its restoration down to the gauge of the brass screws in the library.
He stepped past Vanessa as though she were a ghost, his long strides closing the distance between us. The heavy scent of rain and cedar followed him. He stopped two feet from where I knelt, looking down at the crumpled, blood-stained fabric of my sleeve.
“Show me,” he commanded softly.
“It’s really nothing, sir,” I lied, my voice cracking under the sheer terror of what Vanessa would do to me if I spoke. “I just... I lost my balance. I should have been more careful.”
“Sophie.”
The authority in his voice was not angry; it was absolute. It offered no room for evasion, no quarter for social niceties.
Slowly, using my trembling right hand, I peeled the cuff of my uniform back to the elbow.
The linen bandage beneath was saturated, a dark, clotted scarlet at the center. Around the edges of the cloth, the skin of my forearm was already mottling into violent shades of plum, indigo, and black. A deep, jagged scrape ran from the meat of my lower bicep down toward the wrist—the clear, blunt imprint of an iron hydraulic gate latch that had closed violently while someone tried to drag a human being through a steel doorframe.
A hush settled over the foyer that was thick enough to suffocate.
Luca leaned down, his gloved fingers touching the edge of the torn fabric with surprising gentleness, never applying pressure, simply holding the sleeve away from the raw wound. His eyes narrowed, the muscles along his jaw flexing into sharp, hard ridges.
“Who bandaged this?” he asked.
“I did, sir.”
“Did you see Dr. Evans?”
I shook my head once, my lips pressed tightly together. “No, Mr. Moretti.”
Behind him, Vanessa’s foot tapped once against the marble. An impatient, sharp sound. “Luca, please. Our guests have been waiting forty minutes for the opening toast. The champagne is losing its chill. Can we please deal with the household staff’s medical needs after we’ve sat down for dinner? Mrs. Abernathy flew in from New York just to see you.”
Luca didn't turn around. He stayed crouched before me, his eyes sweeping over the overturned wheelchair on the floor.
He looked at the custom leather upholstery of the seat. He looked at the embroidered initials—*C.M.*—woven into the headrest.
Then he looked at my arm again.
Then he stood up, towering over me, and turned his head toward Vanessa.
“Where is my mother?”
The question dropped into the grand room like a block of lead.
Vanessa’s posture didn't break, but I saw the micro-twitch at the corner of her crimson-painted mouth. She tilted her head, adopting a look of tender, patronizing sorrow.
“She’s resting upstairs, Luca. You know how sensitive her nerves have been since her last episode. The noise, the music, the lights... the doctor said the excitement of an engagement gathering would be far too much for her heart. I had Sophie tuck her into bed with her chamomile tea nearly an hour ago.”
Luca looked back down at me.
His eyes were terrifyingly clear. He didn't blink. He searched my face, cataloging the white-hot terror in my eyes, the cold sweat shining on my forehead, the blood that had now dripped past my knuckles onto the floor.
“Sophie,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, resonant and cold. “Did you take my mother upstairs?”
My tongue felt like sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.
Vanessa’s voice chimed in instantly, smooth and hurried. “Luca, really, are you interrogating the girl? I already told you, she was helping Caterina earlier this afternoon before she had her little accident with the—”
“I didn't ask you, Vanessa.” Luca’s head snapped toward her, the sheer force of his gaze striking her like a physical blow. The silence in the room curdled into pure dread. “I asked Sophie.”
He turned back to me. “Look at me, Sophie.”
I swallowed the lump of bile in my throat and lifted my chin. My eyes met his. Luca Moretti was a man who moved markets with a signature, a man whose family had controlled the shipping lanes of Lake Michigan for three generations before he transformed the conglomerate into a global logistics leviathan. He was ruthless, calculating, and feared. But in that moment, beneath the cold steel of his gaze, I saw an ancient, coiled desperation.
“Did you take my mother to her bedroom?” he repeated.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
“Then why,” he said, pointing a single, gloved finger at the overturned chair between us, “is her custom mobility chair down here in the entrance hall?”
Vanessa took a swift step forward, her scarlet skirts rustling aggressively. “Because she’s getting a new one tomorrow, darling! The mechanical lift on that one has been sticking for weeks. I arranged for a specialized orthopedic unit to be delivered first thing in the morning. I told Sophie to clear this antiquated thing out to the storage shed so it wouldn't clutter the hallway during the reception.”
Luca turned to her fully now. The air around him seemed to drop ten degrees.
“You arranged what?”
For the first time since I had entered the foyer, Vanessa’s effortless confidence slipped. Her eyes darted toward Julian Vance, who suddenly seemed very interested in the label on his wine glass.
“Her rehabilitation, Luca,” Vanessa said, her voice dropping into a lower, more intimate register, though every guest was straining to hear. “We discussed this. We agreed that her care was becoming too complex for an in-house staff. The private clinic in Barrington—the St. Jude Sanatorium—has round-the-clock neurology specialists. We said we would begin the transition after the engagement.”
“No,” Luca said. The syllable was flat, final, and cold as iron. “*You* discussed it. I told you that my mother will die under this roof, in her own bed, surrounded by the people she knows, and that no stranger will ever touch her care without my express written consent.”
Vanessa’s lips parted, a flash of genuine anger breaking through her veneer. “Luca, this is hardly the time or the place—”
Luca turned back to me. He ignored her entirely.
The twenty-eight guests in the foyer stood like wax mannequins, completely frozen in the presence of a domestic unraveling they were never meant to witness.
“Where is she, Sophie?” Luca asked.
I wanted to speak. The truth was burning in my chest like kerosene. But Vanessa was standing three feet behind him, her dark eyes drilling into mine with an icy, unmistakable promise. *Forty-six dollars,* my mind whispered. *No references. A blacklisted name in every domestic agency in Illinois. A police report for theft if she decides to frame me.*
I stared at the marble, my hands shaking against my knees. “She’s upstairs, Mr. Moretti.”
Luca studied me for five long seconds. He saw the tremor in my shoulders, the way my eyes flicked toward the woman in red, the shallow rise and fall of my chest.
Then he asked, very quietly, “Are you afraid of losing your job?”
A hot tear spilled over my lower eyelid before I could stop it, cutting a path through the dust on my cheek. “Yes, sir.”
“You won't,” he said. The promise was absolute, forged in bronze. “You will never answer to anyone in this house except me from this moment forward. Now, Sophie. I am going to ask you one more question.”
He bent down slightly, bringing his face level with mine.
“Did you hurt your arm trying to protect my mother?”
A sharp intake of breath came from Vanessa. She took half a step backward, her hand fluttering to the diamond pendant at her throat.
The truth broke through the dam.
“Yes, sir,” I whispered.
Luca stood up.
He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice. He turned to Marcus Cole, the burly, gray-templed head of private security who had followed him through the front doors.
“Marcus.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti?”
“Close the front gates. Lock the perimeter. No vehicle leaves this property. If anyone tries to drive through the gatehouse, put a round through their engine block.”
A shudder ran through the room. Several guests gasped; one woman dropped her champagne flute, the crystal shattering across the stone floor. Julian Vance took a hurried step forward, his hands raised placatingly. “Luca, surely this is an overreaction—an unfortunate domestic dispute doesn't require—”
“Get out of my house, Julian,” Luca said without looking at him. “All of you. Into the drawing-room. Marcus will take your phones until I have resolved this.”
He turned back toward Vanessa. His face was a mask carved from granite.
“Enjoy your party, Vanessa.”
She stared at him, her chest heaving, the scarlet dress trembling with fury. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“To see my mother.”
Luca turned on his heel and strode toward the grand central staircase, taking the wide marble steps two at a time.
“Sophie,” he called out over his shoulder, not breaking his stride. “With me.”
I pushed myself up from the floor, using the wall for leverage. The room spun for a dizzying second before my vision cleared. Ignoring the venomous, murderous glare that Vanessa shot me from across the foyer—a look that promised total destruction if I survived the night—I hurried after him, holding my bleeding arm against my stomach.
Every stair was an agonizing jolt through my battered body, but adrenaline was flooding my veins now. Luca was already at the top landing, his long coat billowing behind him like a dark sail as he turned down the west corridor toward the master suites.
The hallway was dimly lit, the silk wallpaper muffled by the quiet ticking of a grandfather clock at the far end. Luca reached his mother’s bedroom door, twisted the heavy brass handle, and shoved it inward.
“Mother?”
The room was vast, dominated by a four-poster canopy bed draped in pale ivory damask. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn against the dark Chicago evening. A fire burned low in the stone hearth, casting dancing orange shadows across the Persian rug.
The bed was empty.
The covers were thrown back, twisted into a violent knot at the foot of the mattress. On the bedside armchair, Mrs. Moretti’s favorite royal-blue wool cardigan—the one she had worn every evening since her stroke—lay folded with clinical, unnatural precision. Beside it sat a half-empty glass of water and two crushed white tablets on a small silver tray.
Luca stood frozen in the center of the room. The silence was absolute, save for the crackle of a dying log in the grate.
He turned slowly toward me. The veins in his temples were pulsing visibly against his skin.
“Where is she, Sophie?”
The air in my lungs felt cold. I pointed my trembling right hand down the hallway, toward the service stairs.
He walked over to me, stopping only inches away. He reached out, his dark eyes falling not just on my bandaged forearm, but on my right shoulder. The back of my navy-blue uniform was shredded—three long, parallel tears in the fabric, crusted with gray grease and dried blood from where my back had been slammed into the steel tracking of the elevator shaft.
His voice dropped into a terrifyingly soft register. “Tell me everything. Start from thirty minutes before I arrived.”
I swallowed hard, clutching my aching arm.
“Around six o'clock, two men arrived through the delivery bay,” I said, the words tumbling out in a breathless, terrified rush. “They weren't wearing uniforms, Mr. Moretti. They had dark green scrubs and heavy coats. Vanessa let them in through the side kitchen door herself. She told the head cook to take the kitchen staff down to the wine cellar to inventory the vintage reserves for the party.”
Luca’s jaw clenched so hard I heard the bone click. “Go on.”
“I was coming up the service stairs with the fresh linens for Mrs. Moretti’s bed,” I continued, shivering despite the heat radiating from his proximity. “I heard your mother screaming. Not loud—she couldn't make much sound, because they had put a towel or something over her face. They were trying to lift her out of bed, wrestling her into a transport gurney with leather restraints.”
“Who were the men?”
“I don't know! They had no badges, no company names on their jackets. But Mrs. Moretti was fighting them with everything she had. She saw me through the open door and called my name. When I tried to run into the room, one of them grabbed me by the hair and threw me against the wall.”
Luca’s hands balled into fists, his knuckles turning dead white. “And then?”
“Your mother bit the man holding her arm. He dropped her. She managed to slide onto the floor and crawl toward the service elevator. I grabbed the fire extinguisher from the wall mount and swung it at the other man. I hit him in the ribs—I think I broke something, sir, because he doubled over and dropped a syringe. That’s when the first man grabbed me and tried to force me into the elevator shaft while the doors were closing. My arm got caught in the safety gate.”
Tears were streaming down my face now, hot and uncontrollable, washing away the shock that had kept me numb.
“I didn't let go of the gate,” I sobbed. “If the gate closed, the elevator would go down to the basement where their van was waiting. I jammed the extinguisher into the door track. It crushed my elbow, but the motor burned out and the elevator jammed. The men panicked. They heard guests arriving out front. They ran down the fire stairs, leaving your mother on the floor.”
Luca reached out. For a split second, I thought he was going to touch my shoulder, but he caught himself, his fingers curling into the air between us before settling into his pockets.
“Where did you hide her, Sophie?”
“I couldn't get her back into her bed—the sheets were torn and there was blood on the carpet from my arm,” I whispered, wiping my eyes with the back of my good hand. “She was terrified. She kept crying, saying that if Vanessa saw her alive, Vanessa would finish it. She told me Vanessa had been coming into her room at two in the morning for the last three weeks, whispering to her, telling her she was going to die in a cold room where Luca would never find her.”
Luca’s breath hitched—a sharp, jagged sound in the quiet room. “What else did my mother say?”
“She said Vanessa was on the phone every night with someone named Julian. She said they were waiting for the maritime contracts to clear before they moved her. Mrs. Moretti made me swear on my mother’s grave that I wouldn't let Vanessa know where she was. So I took her to the old sewing room at the very end of the attic corridor. No one goes up there—it’s full of old mannequins and mothballs. I wrapped her in her wool blanket and told her to stay under the cutting table while I went down to clean up the foyer.”
Luca didn't wait for another word. He spun on his heel and sprinted down the hallway toward the small, concealed staircase that led to the attic storage rooms.
I ran after him, my boots pounding against the carpet, my breath tearing through my lungs in ragged gasps.
We climbed the steep, narrow wooden stairs to the fourth floor. The air up here was cold and smelled of cedar shavings, forgotten books, and dust. At the end of the narrow corridor, behind a stack of unused velvet armchairs, was the heavy oak door of the sewing room.
The door was standing wide open.
A single naked bulb hung from the high ceiling, swinging slowly on its black cord, casting erratic, pendulum shadows across the room.
The room was completely empty.
On the floor beneath the heavy pine cutting table lay Caterina’s thick wool blanket, tossed aside like a discarded rag. Beside it, gleaming dully on the dusty floorboards, was an empty five-milligram syringe of lorazepam.
And a woman’s pearl earring, snapped cleanly at the clasp.
Luca walked into the center of the room. He picked up the earring. It was a pearl the size of a marble, encircled by small, pavé-set rubies.
Vanessa’s earrings. The ones Luca’s own father had gifted her when the engagement was formally announced six months ago.
“No,” I choked out, covering my mouth with my bloody hand. “No, no, no... she was here. I left her right here. She promised me she wouldn't move.”
Luca didn't speak. The silence radiating from him was more terrifying than any scream of rage could ever be. It was the absolute, vacuum-like stillness of a storm before the lightning strikes the earth.
Then, from the inner pocket of his charcoal overcoat, his private satellite phone began to chime.
A shrill, flat, digital rhythm.
Luca answered it on the second ring, pressing the device to his ear without taking his eyes off the pearl in his palm.
“Speak,” he commanded.
It was Marcus Cole. His voice came through the receiver so loud and clear that I could hear every clipped syllable from two feet away.
*“Boss, we have a situation at the South Gatehouse. A private, unmarked Mercedes Sprinter ambulance just pulled up to the exit barrier. They’re trying to ram through the pneumatic spikes, but our boys have three Suburbans blocking the gate.”*
Luca’s hand tightened around the phone until the plastic groaned. “Who is driving?”
*“Two private security contractors. They have medical transport badges from the St. Jude Foundation. They’re claiming Miss Bellini authorized an immediate emergency transfer under your personal executive power of attorney. They have a passenger strapped into the back gurney.”*
Luca’s voice dropped into a register that made the blood freeze in my veins. “Is it my mother?”
A hesitation on the other end of the line. Static hissed through the speaker.
*“Sir, the windows are tinted twenty-percent limo black, and the attendants are refusing to open the rear cargo doors. They're claiming the patient is immunocompromised and highly volatile. But... boss, hold on.”*
A burst of scuffling came through the line. The sound of shouting, the dull thud of heavy boots on asphalt, the sharp metallic snap of a vehicle door being wrenched open by main force, followed by the distinctive, unmistakable click of a service weapon being racked.
*“Get away from that door, back up! Back up!”* Marcus’s voice shouted in the background.
Then, faint, trembling, and utterly destroyed by crying and narcotics, an elderly woman’s voice cut through the static of the satellite phone.
*“Luca...?”*
Luca closed his eyes. A single, shuddering breath escaped his chest. “Mother.”
*“Luca, don't let her take the house... don't let her touch the maritime trusts... she’s not alone, Luca. Tell my son not to trust the woman in the red dress. She never loved him. She’s Vance’s puppet... she has the signed deeds in her vanity...”*
The voice broke into a violent, racking cough, followed by the sound of someone crying out in pain as the line was jostled.
Then Caterina Moretti spoke again, her voice rising in a desperate, cracked wail that pierced the cold attic air.
*“And tell Sophie I'm sorry! Tell Sophie I should have warned her who Vanessa really is! Tell her they know about her brother! Luca, get Sophie out of the house—!”*
The call went dead with a sharp, violent burst of white noise.
Luca slowly lowered the phone from his ear.
The swinging light bulb above us cast deep, cavernous shadows over the planes of his face. Slowly, with an agonizing deliberation that made my knees turn to water, his slate-gray eyes rose from the dark phone screen and locked directly onto mine.
“My brother?” I whispered, the room beginning to tilt around me. “What does she mean, my brother?”
Luca didn't answer. He reached out with his left hand, caught my uninjured shoulder with an iron grip that pulled me steady, and drew a black semi-automatic pistol from his shoulder holster with his right.
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“Marcus,” Luca spoke into the dead phone line as it beeped for redial, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Kill the driver. Take the ambulance. And bring Vanessa Bellini to the wine cellar in chains.”
***
