Chapter 5 - The Locked Room Across the Hall
Dominic refused to discuss his mother.
The moment Leo left, the emotional wall returned.
“Your blood pressure is elevated,” I said.
“I wonder why.”
“You need rest.”
“I need answers.”
“You need both.”
His gaze moved toward the folder containing Elena Caruso’s name.
“I haven't seen that name on a financial document since I was twenty-one.”
“What happened when you were twenty-one?”
Nothing.
“Dominic.”
“Drop it.”
I recognized the warning.
For once, I listened.
At three in the morning, I woke on the sofa in the sitting room beside Dominic’s bedroom.
The bed was empty.
My heart jumped.
“Dominic?”
No answer.
The bathroom was empty.
I stepped into the hallway.
A thin line of light glowed beneath a door across from his suite.
A door I had never seen open.
I crossed the hall and pushed it.
Locked.
Inside, something moved.
“Dominic?”
Silence.
I knocked.
“If you passed out in there, I’m going to be extremely annoyed.”
The lock clicked.
Dominic opened the door.
He wore black lounge pants and nothing else, his fresh bandage bright against his shoulder.
“You shouldn't be walking.”
“And you shouldn't be awake.”
“I’m employed to be annoying.”
“So you've said.”
I looked past him.
The room was small compared to the rest of the mansion.
Bookshelves.
Old photographs.
A piano.
Dust.
It felt untouched by the cold perfection of the house.
“What is this?”
“My mother's room.”
“You keep it locked?”
“Yes.”
“And you came here because of the account.”
He looked at me.
“You ask too many questions.”
“You answer too few.”
He should have sent me away.
Instead, he stepped aside.
I entered.
On the piano stood a framed photograph.
A dark-haired woman with kind eyes held the hand of a boy around ten years old.
The boy was unmistakably Dominic.
He wasn't smiling.
His mother was.
“She looks happy.”
“She wasn't.”
The response came immediately.
Dominic walked toward the window.
“My father believed appearances were everything.”
“What did he do?”
Dominic’s jaw tightened.
“He controlled everyone.”
The room became quiet.
“When she tried leaving him, he threatened to keep me from her.”
“How old were you?”
“Twelve.”
“And did she leave?”
“No.”
He stared at the rain.
“She died nine years later.”
“I’m sorry.”
His expression remained flat.
“Officially, a car accident.”
“Officially?”
He turned.
“I never believed it.”
The pieces began fitting together.
The secret account.
The shooter.
Vincent.
Anthony.
“Do you think her death is connected to what’s happening now?”
“I don't know.”
Dominic crossed to an old writing desk.
“After my father died, I searched everything. I found nothing.”
“When did he die?”
“Three years ago.”
“And you inherited the organization.”
“Yes.”
“You wanted it?”
A faint, bitter smile.
“Nobody ever asked.”
That sentence changed the way I saw him.
I had imagined Dominic Rossi choosing power because power suited him.
Maybe part of him had.
But perhaps the choice had been made long before he understood what it cost.
He opened the desk drawer.
Inside was a jewelry box.
He removed a gold pendant.
“My mother wore this every day.”
He pressed the back.
Nothing happened.
Then he twisted one edge.
A hidden compartment opened.
Inside was a tiny brass key.
Dominic stared.
“You've never seen that?”
“No.”
“What does it open?”
“I don't know.”
A sound came from the hallway.
Both of us turned.
Dominic moved instinctively in front of me.
Still feverish.
Still injured.
Still attempting to protect me.
The door opened.
Leo appeared.
He stopped when he saw where we were.
His face changed.
“Sir.”
“What?”
“You should see this.”
Leo held a tablet.
Security footage.
A dark figure entering the mansion six weeks earlier.
Through a maintenance entrance.
The man's face was visible for only two seconds.
Dominic recognized him instantly.
“Anthony.”
Leo nodded.
“But Anthony lives here,” I said.
“He does,” Leo replied.
“Then why use a maintenance entrance?”
Dominic understood before I did.
“Because he didn't want the house cameras recording who came with him.”
Leo advanced the footage.
Another person entered.
Older.
Wearing a cap.
The face turned briefly toward the camera.
Dominic whispered:
“Mercer.”
The real Dr. Mercer.
Six weeks earlier.
So Mercer and Anthony had been meeting secretly.
“Keep going,” Dominic said.
Leo did.
A third figure appeared.
Vincent.
All three men entered through the same hidden door.
Six weeks before Dominic was shot.
I looked at him.
“You had three people close to you meeting secretly.”
“Yes.”
“And now all three have disappeared.”
“Yes.”
“That isn’t coincidence.”
“No.”
Leo hesitated.
“There’s another problem.”
“What?”
“Mercer's body was found tonight.”
I swallowed.
Dominic went still.
“Where?”
“Near the river.”
“Cause?”
“Unknown.”
Leo’s eyes moved toward me before returning to Dominic.
“Police estimate he died approximately forty-eight hours ago.”
The timeline hit me.
Forty-eight hours.
Meaning the person who had stood beside Dominic’s bed pretending to be Dr. Mercer hadn't merely impersonated an absent physician.
He had impersonated a dead man.
Dominic’s hand closed around the brass key.
“Someone is cleaning up.”
Leo nodded.
“And we're next.”
Dominic looked toward me.
“No.”
His voice became cold.
“I am.”
He turned to Leo.
“Get Nora out of the city.”
My stomach tightened.
“No.”
Dominic’s eyes closed briefly.
“Please do not start.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“This isn't your fight.”
“You're my patient.”
“I can find another nurse.”
“Six tried.”
“That isn't funny.”
“It wasn't supposed to be.”
Dominic stepped closer.
“You don't understand.”
“Then explain it.”
“People around me die.”
It was the first time fear entered his voice.
Not fear for himself.
For me.
“Nora, whoever is behind this knows where you live. They know you discovered the medication. Staying near me puts you in danger.”
“So does leaving.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then I’ll send protection.”
“I don’t trust your security.”
A pause.
“Fair.”
“What I trust is my own judgment. And right now my judgment says you won't survive another round of sabotaged care.”
“I survived before you.”
“Barely.”
His eyes held mine.
Neither of us moved.
Finally, Dominic whispered, “Why?”
“What?”
“Why are you staying?”
The answer should have been money.
Rent.
Professional duty.
But something had changed.
I saw the exhausted man beneath the name everyone feared.
I saw a son standing in the room his dead mother had left behind.
And against my better judgment, I cared whether he lived.
“Because somebody needs to.”
His expression softened.
Only slightly.
Then a crash sounded from downstairs.
Leo reached for his radio.
Static.
The mansion lights went out again.
This time, they did not come back.
And from somewhere below us, a man's voice shouted:
May you like
“Fire!”
---
