Chapter 6 - The Door Beneath the Kitchen
Cassian moved Adeline out of their bedroom that afternoon.
She stood in the hallway with her arms folded.
“You’re relocating me inside my own house?”
“Yes.”
“To where?”
“The east suite.”
“Why?”
“Reinforced doors. Separate ventilation. Private staircase.”
“You have a panic room disguised as a guest suite?”
“Several.”
“Of course you do.”
Cassian handed Odette instructions.
Adeline followed him.
“I’m still working.”
“No.”
She stopped.
“Try that again.”
Cassian turned.
“You are not returning to St. Brendan until I know whether someone is targeting you.”
“I have patients.”
“You have a child.”
“So pregnant women stop having careers?”
“That is not what I said.”
“It sounded remarkably similar.”
Cassian took one breath.
He had negotiated with organized crime families in three countries without raising his voice.
His wife could make him lose patience before breakfast.
“I am asking for forty-eight hours.”
“You ordered.”
“Fine.”
He forced himself.
“Adeline, will you stay home for forty-eight hours while I determine whether two suspicious deaths are connected to your pregnancy?”
She considered.
“That was much better.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes.”
Cassian looked offended by how difficult the process had been.
Adeline almost laughed.
That night, she could not sleep.
At two in the morning she walked downstairs.
The kitchen was dark.
She opened the refrigerator.
Then she heard something behind her.
Click.
The basement door.
Unlocked.
Adeline stared.
Odette’s warning returned.
Never go down.
Naturally, every instinct she possessed told her to do exactly that.
She found a flashlight.
The staircase smelled of stone and dust.
At the bottom stood a corridor unlike anything she expected.
Not wine storage.
Records.
Rows of filing cabinets.
Shelves.
Old ledgers.
Boxes marked by year.
The Raldi family archive.
Adeline walked slowly.
Then she found a section labeled MEDICAL.
Her pulse accelerated.
A drawer opened smoothly.
Cassian Raldi.
Childhood records.
Adolescent records.
The accident at seventeen.
She stopped.
The official infertility diagnosis was supposedly made years later.
But the archive contained older blood work.
Normal reproductive markers.
No indication of permanent infertility.
Adeline searched.
A file from age twenty-three.
Normal.
Age twenty-six.
Normal.
Then age twenty-seven.
Suddenly abnormal.
Six consultants.
Six matching conclusions.
Impossible fertility.
She examined the laboratory identifiers.
One name appeared repeatedly.
Cain Medical Holdings.
Adeline went still.
A floorboard creaked behind her.
She spun.
Cassian stood in the corridor.
Barefoot.
No jacket.
No tie.
And no gloves.
He looked more tired than angry.
“I gave you one rule.”
“You gave me approximately fifty.”
“One mattered.”
Adeline held up the file.
“So did this.”
Cassian looked at it.
His expression changed.
“Where?”
“Third cabinet.”
He came closer.
She showed him the older records.
“These results contradict the later reports.”
Cassian read silently.
Adeline pointed.
“Your hormone values were normal for years after your accident.”
“I was told the damage progressed.”
“There’s no evidence of progression here.”
He turned another page.
Cain Medical Holdings.
Ezra’s family company.
Cassian became perfectly still.
Adeline whispered, “You see it.”
“Yes.”
“Why would Ezra want you to think you couldn’t have children?”
“I don’t know.”
“You always know.”
“Not this time.”
A sound came from farther down the corridor.
Both turned.
Cassian moved in front of her instinctively.
“Stay.”
“No.”
“Adeline.”
“You’re barefoot.”
“That is irrelevant.”
“It feels relevant.”
Despite everything, his mouth twitched.
They followed the sound.
A door stood open.
Inside was a smaller room.
Photographs covered one wall.
Adeline stopped.
Her father.
Henry Whitmore.
Photographed entering banks, offices, Elmrove.
Then Adeline herself.
At work.
At home.
At a grocery store.
Pictures spanning four years.
Her face went cold.
“What is this?”
Cassian stared.
“I’ve never seen this room.”
Adeline turned toward him.
“It’s your house.”
“This basement predates me.”
A desk contained folders.
One bore her name.
Inside:
Employment history.
Financial records.
Her father’s manufactured debt.
Maryanne’s medical notes.
And finally a handwritten document.
CONTINGENCY: WHITMORE DAUGHTER
Adeline’s hand trembled.
Cassian took the page.
It contained instructions.
Keep her financially constrained.
Monitor employment.
Prevent relocation outside Illinois.
Preserve contact if succession problem requires correction.
Adeline whispered, “Succession problem?”
Cassian looked toward the medical files.
The implication formed.
Someone had known years ago that Adeline might matter to the Raldi succession.
But why?
Cassian searched another drawer.
He found a photograph.
Henry Whitmore standing beside Cassian’s father, Vittorio Raldi.
Both younger.
Both smiling.
Adeline stared.
“My father knew yours.”
“Yes.”
“You knew?”
“No.”
On the back, handwriting.
Henry—if anything happens to me, protect the truth about the boys. —V
Cassian’s expression changed.
“The boys?”
Adeline looked at him.
“You have a brother?”
“No.”
A voice behind them answered.
“Yes, you do.”
They turned.
Rosalind stood at the entrance.
Cassian’s face emptied.
“What did you say?”
The old woman looked suddenly ancient.
“You had a brother.”
“Had?”
“He died at birth.”
Cassian said nothing.
Rosalind continued.
“At least that is what I was told.”
Adeline felt cold.
“What does this have to do with Cassian’s infertility?”
Rosalind’s eyes shifted toward the old documents.
“Everything.”
She entered the room.
“Your father, Adeline, discovered that the child who died was not Cassian’s brother.”
Cassian’s jaw tightened.
“What?”
“He discovered the hospital records had been changed.”
Rosalind looked at him.
“The infant who died was another family’s child.”
Silence.
“And my brother?”
Rosalind swallowed.
“We never found him.”
Cassian stared.
For perhaps the first time in his adult life, he looked genuinely stunned.
Adeline touched his arm.
Rosalind continued.
“Your father believed someone took the second Raldi son.”
“Why?”
“Because two heirs are harder to control than one.”
Cassian’s eyes moved toward the Cain name on the medical files.
A horrifying possibility emerged.
“What was his name?”
Rosalind whispered, “Gabriel.”
At that exact moment, Cassian’s phone vibrated.
An unknown number.
A photograph appeared.
Ezra Cain standing beside a grave.
The marker read:
EZRA CAIN SR.
Beside it stood another marker.
No surname.
Only:
**GABRIEL
1989—**
No death date.
Beneath the photograph was a message.
May you like
YOUR BROTHER NEVER DIED.
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