His Mafia Prince
Chapter 251: More Secrets in the Safe

Chapter 251: More Secrets in the Safe

(SASHA)

Before we moved to our current residence, my father lived on a corner block in the West Side, in a gardened, four-story luxury mansion. It’s actually a landmark in the city, built in the early nineteen hundreds by a wealthy tobacco merchant.

When he bought it, it was falling apart. But over the years, My Father had it restored in painstaking, loving detail, including the reason he bought it in the first place: the secret passageway from the cellar that originally led down to the river.

The reconstructed passageway only extends as far as the other end of the block.

The bright white facade of the mansion makes it stand out among the darker buildings surrounding it. I had it cleaned from the tarry smog clinging to its marble exterior during the renovations carried out after My father ’s death, and I’m glad now that I did. It shines even brighter than it did in my memory. We’ve had it emptied of Miles’s security outfitters for the day, though their tools and workbenches still clutter the opening of the mansion.

"I wish you could have seen it before," I tell Tyler after Miles unlocks the front door. I haven’t been here since for a while now. But I had to see it for myself, just once.

Since then, all I’ve seen are photographs of the repairs and renovations. I haven’t been able to bring myself to step over the threshold again until today.

"It’s very beautiful," Tyler says, as we walk slowly in. "I can see it must have been...a palace, of sorts."

Very few mansions from the Gilded Age survive intact around here and the restoration work that my father carried out was faithful to the original interior design.

The floors beyond the marble foyer are shining, polished hardwood, and the coffered ceilings throughout the first floor are ornate, hand-carved wooden honeycombs, echoed in the carved staircases and panel detailing around the fireplaces.

I wish Tyler could have seen it with all the furniture, rugs and ornaments in place, but they’ve been placed in storage while the workers replaster the walls, which Miles has had reinforced, and they are still to be repainted and the wallpaper replaced.

"And the conservatory is extant?" I ask Miles.

"You mean that plant room?"

"The conservatory," I correct him.

"At the back of the house? Yeah."

I pause, the same elusive memory tugging at my mind. "You’re sure? The tiles weren’t damaged?"

Eyebrows raised, he nods. "Sure as sure, Boss. I know the glass got shot up some during the attack on the Old Don, may he rest in peace, but it was also one of the first repairs to be completed back then, on your orders. It’s bullet-resistant now, and there’s a steel gate that comes down automatic to shut it off from the house if the alarm goes off."

I wave a hand impatiently. I don’t care about that sort of thing. "The plants?" I ask instead.

"The original gardener comes every week to give the plants some love— just like you ordered."

He leads the way to the conservatory, Tyler behind him, and I bring up the rear.

Tyler’s shoulders are square and pulled back, almost as though he’s expecting another sudden attack. but if there’s one place we have kept as secure as our own townhouse, it’s my Father ’s place. Not that our townhouse has fared all that well. Still, I had the feeling that one day something would turn up in this house. Checkbooks, bonds, jewels, various documents.

But the head of the Adonis Family then, as I well know now, had even more important things that needed to be preserved, and never in so obvious a place as a wall safe. In fact, I’d expected to find more material than I did in my Father ’s safe deposit boxes.

I have one myself, where I keep the most dangerous pieces of information that fall into my hands, and anything that I want to keep away from prying eyes. But we checked every one of My Father ’s safe deposit boxes, and his bank accounts were straightforward.

I’d known that there must have been more, and that one remaining safe combination had been confirmation. I’d asked Miles about it more than once, and while he’d agreed with me that there seemed to be something missing, he’d been no wiser than I.

Since he’d spent a lot of time in the mansion, and had no clues to offer, I had to let it go in the end.

But the conservatory was a place where my Father preserved his privacy and enjoyed time alone to think. So, although it seems an unlikely place for secret safes, I want to check it over once more.

We arrive at the doorway to the conservatory, the air temperature decidedly warmer and more humid even though it’s now autumn here.

Inside, the plants are slightly overgrown, but they have been kept in check over the years. It’s perhaps a little wilder than my Father preferred, but I... I think I like it. It’s giving me a sense of déjà vu that I can’t place.

I turn to Tyler, wondering if he recognizes something about it, but the question dies before I even take breath.

Tyler’s teeth are clenched, I can tell by the way the cords in his neck stand out.

"Angel," I say, putting my hand on his shoulder. "Are you—?"

He swallows, staring into the conservatory like it’s a jungle with all sorts of sharp-toothed creatures waiting in there to pounce.

"I just," he croaks, and then swallows again. "Maybe I just need a second."

I flick my head at Miles, who backtracks to the kitchen and comes back with a cool glass of water. Meanwhile, I’ve helped Tyler over to the love seat in the sitting room outside the conservatory. He takes the glass gratefully and swallows it down all in one go.

"Why don’t you wait here with Miles," I murmur to him. I know he wouldn’t be happy if I made a big deal out of things.

"Yeah," he mutters. "I just...I could use a second to get my shit together."

I understand. I find it moving myself to be in the house, without him in it. So I give him a quick kiss and stand, locking eyes with Miles, who merely nods at the silent order. Then I turn and enter the conservatory.

For some reason, I expected a much longer walk to the center, but the path, though circular, spirals quickly in to the same small table and chairs that I remember so well from my time here.

I give in to nostalgia and take my usual chair, the one I always used to sit in. But it feels wrong, somehow.

I stand again and look around, wondering if there’s a safe hidden among the foliage, and then decide I’d be better off sitting in my Father’s usual chair, if I want to think like him.

So, after another glance around as though his spirit might be watching, I re-seat myself where My Father used to sit. Feeling a little like Goldilocks, I decide that this position is just right.

I glance down at the base of the cement table, built for outside wear and much more durable and heavier than necessary in a more sheltered. conservatory. I always thought it was actually built into the paving, but as I lean against it, it gives the tiniest wobble.

I push again, harder this time, and it gives an inch, leaving a dark ring of dust and dirt behind it. Underneath is a large mosaic tile, and when I look closer, I see a hole in it, disguised by clever placement within the mosaic design.

When I stamp my foot down on the tile with the hole, there is a hollow sounding echo.

I compare it to the flat thud my foot makes on the other tiles around it, and then I shove the whole table to one side, ignoring the flashes of pain in my belly, and praying that Tyler won’t suddenly decide to make his way in.

He’ll get annoyed if he thinks I’ve been too physically active.

I leave the clearing to root among the plants and tools until I find a piece of metal rebar that I think will fit in the hole. It does, with some manoeuvring, and then I carefully lever up the tile and shift it aside.

Underneath it is a steel door and a modern keypad. I crouch carefully, and, with a deliberate finger, enter the last code, the one that never worked on any of the other safes. I know it by heart, having puzzled over it for many nights, but I double-check it against the cryptic note I made on my phone about it as well, and then I pause and triple check it again.

It’s correct. I hit ENTER.

As soon as I do, the door gives a satisfying, dull clunk, and bounces up on the hinge.

I pull it open and use my phone flashlight to illuminate the dark space below. There are documents, as I expected—photographs, letters, contracts. All of them will be useful to me, I can see that with a mere glance, my heart leaping as I consider how much potential they symbolize.

Underneath them all, though, there is a letter postmarked from Chester, without a return address on the back.

The letter inside is nothing but a brief note addressed to my Father, and a series of numbers at the bottom.

But I believe I recognize the handwriting.