That night, the manor felt like a tomb. Dante was in a late-night video conference with overseas buyers, his voice a low, steady drone coming from the library.
Anna slipped into the kitchen. Mrs. Halloway was asleep in her quarters. Anna found the service elevator—a small, rickety thing used for laundry. She descended into the North Cellars, a part of the basement she had never visited.
When the doors opened, the smell hit her first. Iron and bleach.
She stepped out into a dimly lit corridor with reinforced steel doors. At the far end, one door was slightly ajar. She crept toward it, her heart in her throat.
Through the crack in the door, she saw a man strapped to a chair. He was bloodied, his face unrecognizable. Standing over him wasn't Dante, but one of his "cleaners"—a man with surgical gloves and a tray of instruments that looked like they belonged in a nightmare.
"Mr. Vane wants the signature by morning," the cleaner said calmly. "He doesn't care how many fingers you have left to hold the pen."
The man in the chair groaned, a wet, gurgling sound. The cleaner picked up a pair of heavy pliers.
Anna backed away, her hand over her mouth. She felt a wave of nausea. This was the "order" Dante talked about. This was the rebranding. He wasn't changing the violence; he was just hiding it behind her beautiful typing and his expensive suits.
She turned and ran for the elevator, her breath coming in ragged gasps. She had to get out. She had to leave with Leo.