Chapter 7 - THE MECHANISM IN THE WAINSCOTING
The infant’s cry pierced the heavy dread in the room.
Duca didn't lose his head. He spun instantly, scooping Mia and the crying baby into his arms, lifting them both clean off the ground with effortless strength. Mia gasped, clinging to his broad shoulders, while Lily’s small face poked out from the faded sling, tear-streaked and flushed with sleep.
“Quiet now, sweetheart,” Duca murmured, his voice surprisingly gentle despite the iron tension vibrating through his chest. He carried them away from the bookcase, crossing the wide room toward the heavy oxblood leather sofa positioned by the hearth. He set Mia down gently, tucking her onto the cushions, and knelt down so that his eyes were level with hers.
“You stay right here with your sister,” he whispered, his dark eyes burning with an intense, protective heat. “Do you hear me, Mia? No matter what happens, you don't move from this couch. Keep Lily quiet. I am going to take care of this.”
Mia nodded vigorously, her hazel eyes huge, pulling Lily forward into her lap to hush the infant against her chest with practiced, maternal strokes.
Duca rose to his full height. His entire countenance darkened. He unclipped his platinum wristwatch, dropped it onto a side table, and rolled his shirt sleeves higher, his tattooed forearms flexing as his hands curled into fists.
He had owned the Beacon Hill estate for five years. He had gutted half the interior, modernizing the wiring and reinforcing the foundation, but the library had been left untouched—preserved out of respect for its historic architectural pedigree. He had known there were rumors of old bootlegger routes and pre-Civil War abolitionist hiding spaces woven through the subterranean tunnels of the hill, but his study was on the second floor.
He approached the bookcase again, his footsteps deliberate, making no effort to conceal his weight.
He reached the shelf Mia had indicated. Up close, beneath the glare of the directional picture lights above, he noticed something he had never registered during his late-night reading sessions: the scent of cedar was slightly stronger here, and a faint, almost imperceptible current of cool air was leaking through the hairline joint where the shelf met the fluted pilaster.
Duca reached out. His scarred fingers ran over the spines of the leather-bound books. He pulled one down—a heavy 1888 commentary on civil maritime codes. The book slid free easily, but behind it, set deep into the walnut backing, was a brass toggle flush with the wood.
Another series of knocks sounded—weaker this time, followed by a muffled, dragging sound from within the void.
KNOCK. KNOCK.
“Hold on,” Duca growled through the wood, his voice carrying through the grain like iron.
May you like
He found the brass toggle with his thumb, pressed it firmly inward, and shoved up.
There was a loud, mechanical clunk from within the ceiling cavity—a counterweight shifting—and the entire eight-foot section of the bookcase swung outward on concealed industrial hinges, revealing a dark, vertical passage cut deep into the hollow space between the inner library and the exterior brick turret of the mansion.
