Chapter 2 - Nobody Touches That Room
The sound came again.
Click.
Then silence.
Luca pushed himself higher against the pillows.
“What was that?”
“I don’t know.”
I pressed my palm against the wall.
A faint vibration traveled through the plaster.
Not pipes.
Not rain.
Mechanical.
I stepped back.
“We need to move you.”
“No.”
I turned.
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
Even sick, Luca managed to look offended.
“This is my bedroom.”
“And apparently something else’s.”
I reached for the bedside telephone.
His hand caught my wrist again.
“Mara.”
“What?”
“Do not call downstairs yet.”
I stared at him.
“There could be mold inside that wall.”
“Then calling half the house into the room is exactly what we should not do.”
That was when I remembered who Luca was.
Illness had made him thinner.
Pain had made him quieter.
But neither had made him stupid.
“Why?”
His eyes went toward the wall.
“Because this room was renovated eleven months ago.”
I stopped.
“By who?”
“My uncle Vittorio arranged it while I was in New York.”
I knew Vittorio Varelli. Everyone in the mansion did. He was Luca’s late father’s younger brother, a silver-haired man who wore immaculate suits and smiled without warmth. Since Luca’s illness, Vittorio had started appearing more often, always speaking softly about “continuity” and “family stability.”
“When did you start getting sick?” I asked.
Luca’s expression tightened.
“Ten months ago.”
The answer chilled me.
I moved toward the headboard.
“Do you have tools?”
“In the lower cabinet.”
I found a screwdriver, a utility blade, and a small flashlight. Luca watched as I cut through the lifted wallpaper.
“You know how to do that?”
“My father renovated apartments. I spent half my childhood holding flashlights.”
The wallpaper peeled away with a wet whisper.
Underneath, the plaster was stained dark green and black.
The odor hit us immediately.
Luca coughed.
I covered my mouth.
“Don’t breathe that.”
He reached for his phone.
This time I stopped him.
“Who are you calling?”
“Marco.”
“Who’s Marco?”
“My security chief.”
“You trust him?”
“With my life.”
“That answer feels less impressive considering the current condition of your life.”
Luca almost smiled again.
Then the wall clicked.
I aimed the flashlight toward the stain.
A narrow line ran vertically through the plaster.
Too straight to be a crack.
I scraped around it.
Metal appeared.
“What is that?” Luca asked.
“A panel.”
His gaze hardened.
I removed two screws.
Behind the plaster was a thin steel access door.
A wire ran through it.
Not electrical house wiring.
Something newer.
Something deliberately concealed.
I stepped back.
Luca was no longer merely sick.
He was furious.
“Call Marco,” I said.
He did.
Marco Bellini arrived less than two minutes later, carrying himself like a man who expected violence in every room. He was broad-shouldered, early forties, with a scar beneath his jaw and the calmest eyes I had ever seen on an armed man.
His attention went from Luca to me to the exposed panel.
“What happened?”
“Mara found it.”
Marco looked at me.
Not suspiciously.
Respectfully.
That surprised me.
“We need to move him,” I said.
Marco nodded immediately.
Luca objected.
Both of us ignored him.
For the first time in his own mansion, Luca Varelli lost a vote.
We moved him into the adjoining library, where the windows could open and the fireplace had not been used in years. I cracked the windows despite the rain.
Within twenty minutes, Luca’s breathing eased noticeably.
That was when Marco returned from the bedroom carrying the ceramic diffuser in a sealed evidence bag.
His face had changed.
“What?” Luca asked.
Marco set the bag on the desk.
“The unit has a second reservoir.”
Luca’s eyes narrowed.
“What’s in it?”
“We don’t know yet.”
I looked at Marco.
“The wall?”
“Worse.”
He placed a phone on the table and showed us photographs.
Inside the hidden panel was a compact moisture system connected to a slow drip line.
Not a leak.
A device.
Designed to keep the wall wet.
Designed to feed whatever had been growing there.
Luca stared at the image.
Someone had built sickness into his bedroom.
Not with a gun.
Not with poison in a glass.
With air.
Slow enough to look natural.
Marco swore under his breath.
“Who had access during the renovation?” Luca asked.
“Vittorio. Dr. Harland. The contractor. Mrs. Vale. Two electricians. Three carpenters.”
“And the diffuser?”
Marco’s mouth hardened.
“Dr. Harland ordered it installed.”
Luca went completely still.
Dr. Samuel Harland had been Luca’s private physician for seven years.
He had supervised every test.
Every medication.
Every decision to keep Luca’s room sealed.
Every explanation for why Luca continued deteriorating.
I thought of the scent.
The headaches.
The nights I switched it off.
I looked at Luca.
“You were right about one thing.”
“What?”
“Something changed when I was here.”
His eyes met mine.
“But it wasn’t me.”
“No.”
He leaned back.
For a moment, he looked more exhausted than angry.
Then footsteps sounded outside the library.
Marco’s hand went to his jacket.
The door opened.
Vittorio Varelli entered without knocking.
He smiled when he saw Luca.
Then he saw me.
Then Marco.
Then the open windows.
His smile disappeared.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” he said.
Luca’s voice came quietly.
“Neither are you.”
Vittorio stopped.
“What happened to your room?”
Luca watched him.
“We found a leak.”
For the smallest fraction of a second, Vittorio’s eyes flicked toward the hallway.
Not toward Luca.
Toward the bedroom.
Marco saw it too.
So did I.
Vittorio recovered instantly.
“A leak?”
Luca nodded.
“Behind my bed.”
Vittorio’s face remained perfectly controlled.
But his right hand tightened around his cane.
“How unfortunate.”
Luca smiled then.
Not warmly.
Not weakly.
May you like
The smile of the man Chicago had feared before anyone knew he was ill.
“Yes,” Luca said. “For someone, it is.”
