Chapter 7 - The Safehouse ChapelEmma had never been inside a chapel that looked forgotten.
The safehouse stood twenty minutes outside Baltimore, hidden behind a line of winter-bare trees and a rusted iron gate. From the road, it looked abandoned. Inside, it was warm, clean, and guarded by men who spoke softly because Caleb had told them to.
The chapel had once belonged to an old convent. Its stained-glass windows were cracked in places, turning afternoon light into broken colors on the floor.
Emma sat in the front pew with Rosie on her lap.
Marisol sat beside her, hands clasped so tightly her knuckles showed white.
“You’re mad,” Emma whispered.
Marisol looked down quickly. “No, baby.”
“You’re quiet like when you’re mad.”
“I’m scared.”
Emma leaned against her.
Marisol kissed the top of her head. “But I’m not mad.”
“Miss Isabella said if I told, you’d get sick.”
Marisol closed her eyes.
For six years, she had taught her daughter to be polite, invisible, careful. She had believed invisibility was protection in houses owned by powerful men. Smile. Work hard. Don’t hear anything. Don’t see anything. Never make yourself the center of a rich person’s problem.
But Emma had seen.
And because she had seen, the whole Romano world had turned its face toward them.
A guard named Tomas brought soup and bread. He looked uncomfortable placing food in front of them, as if he understood too well what breakfast had become that morning.
Emma stared at the butter.
Tomas noticed.
“No butter,” he said gently. “Just bread.”
Emma nodded but did not eat.
Marisol touched her shoulder. “Baby, you need to try.”
Emma whispered, “What if someone touched it?”
Tomas crouched, keeping distance. “I opened the package myself. Caleb checked it. Your mama can watch me eat first.”
He tore a piece from the same loaf and put it in his mouth.
Emma waited.
Tomas chewed solemnly, then gave a small thumbs-up.
Only then did she take a bite.
Marisol looked away so her daughter would not see her cry.
At sunset, Caleb arrived.
He entered with the weight of a man carrying bad news.
Marisol stood immediately.
“Is Mr. Romano alive?”
“Yes.”
She sagged with relief.
“Miss Vale?”
“Alive.”
Marisol’s relief vanished.
Caleb looked toward Emma. “Can I speak with your mother?”
Emma’s small hand grabbed Marisol’s sleeve.
Caleb softened his voice. “You can stay where you can see her.”
He led Marisol to the back of the chapel, beneath a statue missing two fingers.
“Leo, the chauffeur, is missing,” he said.
Marisol’s face changed.
“You knew him?”
“He drove staff sometimes.”
“Did he ever speak to Emma?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Think carefully.”
Marisol crossed her arms, fighting a shiver. “He gave her candy once. I threw it away. Something about him felt wrong.”
Caleb nodded.
“Did Isabella ever ask about your schedule? Your room? Emma?”
Marisol’s throat tightened.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Two weeks ago. She came to the laundry room. She said after the wedding there would be changes. She asked if Emma slept through the night. I thought it was strange.”
Caleb’s expression did not change, but his eyes did.
“What else?”
“She asked if I had family.”
“Do you?”
“No. Not close.”
“That’s why she chose you.”
Marisol’s face went pale. “Chose me?”
Caleb lowered his voice. “A witness with no family is easier to threaten.”
Marisol looked across the chapel at Emma.
Her daughter was making Rosie kneel on the pew, whispering something to the doll.
“She’s six,” Marisol said.
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Her voice sharpened. “Men like you say you know, but you don’t. She still cries when her socks feel wrong. She still thinks the moon follows our car. She should not know words like poison.”
Caleb accepted the anger.
He deserved some of it.
Maybe all of it.
“Mr. Romano will protect her.”
“Mr. Romano is the reason she’s in danger.”
The words struck clean.
Caleb did not defend him.
Because she was right.
Instead he said, “He knows.”
That surprised Marisol more than an argument would have.
Before she could respond, Emma called softly.
“Mama?”
Marisol went to her immediately.
Emma held up Rosie. “She has something.”
Marisol frowned. “What do you mean?”
Emma turned the doll around. The seam on Rosie’s back had split slightly from being held too tightly all day. Something small and black peeked from inside the stuffing.
Caleb crossed the chapel in two strides.
“Don’t touch it.”
Emma froze.
Marisol pulled her back.
Caleb took the doll carefully and opened the seam wider.
Inside was a tiny device wrapped in cloth.
A recorder.
Marisol stared.
“I didn’t put that there.”
Caleb’s face hardened. “Who repaired the doll recently?”
Marisol’s mouth went dry.
“Mrs. Vale.”
The chapel seemed to tilt.
Emma whispered, “Miss Isabella fixed Rosie when her arm fell off.”
Caleb examined the device.
A red light blinked once.
Still active.
Listening.
Marisol covered Emma’s mouth before the child could speak.
Caleb crushed the device beneath his heel.
Then his phone rang.
Allessandro.
Caleb answered.
“We have a problem,” he said.
From the broken recorder on the chapel floor, a thin final sound crackled.
Not static.
A voice.
May you like
A man’s voice, distorted but clear enough.
“Found them.”
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