Chapter 6 - The Ascent
The air outside the sub-basement was the sweetest thing I had ever tasted.
My wrists were raw and purple where the zip-tie had bitten into the skin, but I didn't care. I took the stone steps three at a time, my loafers slapping against the damp marble until I reached the third-floor hallway.
When I pushed open the double doors of Suite 501, Noah was sitting up on the Chesterfield, rubbing his eyes with both fists and looking around the massive, sunlit room with wide, bewildered eyes.
"Mom?" he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep. "Where were you? I had a weird dream about big gray pipes."
"We're going on a trip, buddy," I said, scooping him up into my arms so fast he let out a little gasping laugh. I didn't bother packing the duffel bag—I just grabbed the manila folder from the desk, shoved it down the front of my thrift-store sweater, and hoisted Noah onto my hip. "Grab your jacket. We're catching a ride."
When we reached the lobby, the atmosphere had shifted from tense quiet to active, controlled chaos.
Two men in dark gray uniforms were loading heavy leather trunks into a black Mercedes sedan parked right by the front entrance—the same spot where Augusto Ricci had tried to throw me into the gravel less than twenty-horrific hours ago.
Dante Moretti was standing by the open passenger door. He wasn't wearing his coat anymore; his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing lean, corded forearms covered in faint white scars.
"The driver's name is Marco," Dante said without preamble as I stepped out into the crisp morning air. "He will take you directly to the Swiss border at Chiasso. From there, the train to Bern leaves every hour."
I stopped three feet from him, Noah clutching tightly to my neck.
"And your uncle?" I asked.
Dante’s jaw tightened. "My uncle has retired to his villa in Calabria to think about the elasticity of Swiss banking laws. He won't be returning to Bellagio."
"And the hotel?"
Dante looked past me, up at the grand stone facade of the Grand Hotel Bellagio—the slate roof catching the bright, golden light of the Alpine sun, the massive arched windows reflecting the deep, impossible blue of the lake.
"The lease expires at midnight on November first, Elena," Dante said softly, turning his dark eyes back to me. "Until then, I'm just the manager. After that... well, I suppose we'll have to renegotiate the terms."
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He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out a heavy iron key with a notched head—the exact twin of the one my father was holding in the 1957 photograph—and pressed it gently into Noah’s small, unresisting hand.
"Keep that safe, young man," Dante said. "Your grandfather left it in very good hands."
