Chapter 11 - The Burner in the Wall
We returned to the Gold Coast mansion shortly before midnight.
The estate was dark, quiet, and peaceful. The staff had gone to bed hours ago, and the dining room where the nightmare had unfolded twenty-four hours earlier had been completely restored, the damask cloth removed and the polished mahogany table gleaming under the faint security lights.
Luca led me up the grand marble staircase, past the heavy portraits of his ancestors, and into the master wing—a part of the house I had never set foot in as a housekeeper.
The suite was vast, with high ceilings, a roaring gas fireplace, and a massive king-sized bed covered in crisp Egyptian cotton. Through the double glass doors, a private terrace overlooked the dark, churning waters of Lake Michigan.
"Make yourself at home," Luca said, stepping into his walk-in dressing room to hang his coat. "I'll pour us a nightcap."
I walked slowly around the room, taking off my jacket and laying it across the arm of an ivory velvet chaise. The tension of the last two days had finally released its grip on my body, replaced by a profound, languid exhaustion and a deep, humming contentment.
I wandered toward the adjoining guest suite—the room Vanessa had occupied during her visits to the estate. The door stood ajar.
The room was dark, stripped of her personal luggage, which Vance’s security team had packed and couriered to the Bellini estate earlier that afternoon. The dressing table was bare, the closet doors hung open, and the faint, lingering scent of Vanessa's heavy jasmine perfume hung in the air like a ghost.
I was about to turn around and walk back to Luca when a faint, muffled vibration caught my ear.
*Bzzzz. Bzzzz.*
I froze.
The sound was coming from inside the room. It wasn't the master house intercom, nor was it a tablet. It was the distinct, rhythmic buzz of a cell phone on vibrate.
*Bzzzz. Bzzzz.*
I stepped deeper into the dark room, following the sound. It wasn't coming from the mattress or the closet. It was coming from the floorboard near the antique dressing table—the very spot where I had caught Vanessa whispering in dialect three days ago.
I knelt down on the plush Persian rug. Beneath the edge of the mahogany vanity, where the baseboard met the floor, the wood was slightly misaligned.
My fingers, trained by years of cleaning and inspecting every joint of this historic house, found the seam. I pressed down, and a hidden secondary compartment popped open with a quiet mechanical click.
Inside was a cheap, black disposable burner phone, its small monochrome screen lighting up in the shadows.
The caller ID displayed no name, only a local Chicago number with a 312 area code.
My heart began to hammer against my ribs. Vanessa had cleared out her jewelry, her clothes, and her designer bags, but she had left this behind—or someone had hidden it here without her knowledge.
The phone buzzed a third time.
I picked it up. My thumb hovered over the green button for two agonizing seconds. If I took it to Luca, he would call Vance, the line would be traced through corporate channels, and whoever was calling would hang up the moment a man’s voice answered.
I pressed the call button and brought the phone to my ear.
I didn't say a word. I kept my breathing dead silent.
There was a heavy static hiss on the line, followed by the sound of heavy rain beating against a car windshield.
Then, a low, gravelly voice spoke in Italian—not the aristocratic, polished Tuscan dialect of the Bellinis, but the rough, guttural Neapolitan cadence of the South Side dock syndicates.
"Vanessa," the voice said, cold and impatient. "The feds picked up Enzo, but he doesn't know about the real manifest. The shipment on the South Pier isn't tomatoes, and it isn't copper."
My blood turned to ice. My knuckles tightened against the plastic casing of the phone.
The man paused, waiting for a response. When I remained silent, he let out a short, harsh breath that sounded like a laugh.
"Tell me the girl did her job," the voice continued, dropping lower, sending a paralyzing shockwave through my entire nervous system. "Tell me Emma played the part. Luca had to believe the housekeeper was on his side, or he never would have taken the bait on the South Pier terminal."
My breath seized in my throat. The room seemed to tilt violently beneath my feet.
"Answer me, Vanessa," the voice growled, suddenly sharp with suspicion. "Is the wire planted in Luca’s desk? Did Emma Reed deliver the files we gave her father before he died?"
Behind me, the door to the suite swung open wider.
May you like
Luca stood in the doorway, holding two crystal tumblers of amber scotch. The warm, affectionate smile on his face vanished the instant his eyes locked onto the black burner phone clutched in my trembling hand.
"Emma?" Luca asked, his voice suddenly dead and quiet. "Who are you talking to?"
