PART 2: The Road Between What We Knew and What We Chose

The iron gates of the Blackwood estate hung wide open, swaying gently in the midnight wind. The grand stone mansion sat dark against the stormy night sky, its windows looking like empty eye sockets overlooking the wet, manicured lawns.

I cut the headlights of my beat-up sedan a quarter-mile down the road and coasted onto the gravel driveway, parking behind a cluster of pine trees. My heart was pounding against my ribs so loudly I was certain anyone inside could hear it.

I slipped out of the car, gripping a heavy metal tire iron I had pulled from my trunk. It was a pathetic weapon against trained mobsters, but it was all I had.

I crept up the stone steps toward the grand entrance. The heavy oak doors were unlocked, left slightly ajar. I pushed them open, stepping into the massive marble foyer.

The house smelled of ozone, old wood, and gun oil.

Flashlight beams flickered down the long hallway leading toward Dante's study. I heard the muffled sound of wood splintering and metal drawers being ripped from their desks. Luca’s men were already searching the room.

I stayed close to the wall, slipping behind the tall marble pillars that lined the hallway, taking small, silent steps. I reached the archway of the study and peeked around the frame.

Two men in dark tactical jackets were tearing through Dante's bookshelves, tossing rare leather-bound books onto the floor. Luca stood in the center of the room, holding an open briefcase on the mahogany desk, reviewing papers by the light of a high-powered lantern.

Above the marble fireplace hung the painting of the harbor—a massive, dark 19th-century oil canvas depicting ships navigating a stormy sea.

It was untouched.

Luca hadn't found it yet. He was focused on the safe behind the desk, assuming Dante kept his secrets behind steel and digital keypads.

"Anything in the wall safe?" Luca demanded, his voice echoing in the hollow room.

"Just property deeds and old tax forms, boss," one of the men grunted, tossing a binder into the trash can. "Nothing about the Panama codes."

"It's here," Luca said grimly. "Dante wouldn't trust a digital network with the primary ledger. Keep looking."

I squeezed the tire iron until my knuckles turned white. I couldn't fight three grown men. I needed a distraction—something big enough to draw them out of the room long enough for me to reach the painting.

I backed away from the archway, retreating down the hallway toward the grand conservatory. The massive glass greenhouse attached to the side of the house contained the main heating system—a large, industrial gas boiler that fed the estate's floor heating.

I slipped inside the warm, humid glasshouse, surrounded by exotic ferns and towering palms. I found the main gas valve near the wall, rusted but functional.

I grabbed the iron wheel with both hands, my bandaged palm throbbing with pain, and twisted it with all my strength.

The rusted metal groaned, then turned with a sudden clack. The smell of raw natural gas immediately began to fill the air, thick and suffocating.

I pulled a box of long fireplace matches from a decorative brass bucket near the door. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped two matches onto the wet tiles before I finally managed to strike one against the box.

The tiny yellow flame flickered in the dark, casting long shadows across the glass walls.