Chapter 3 - The Breath of Life
The basement was a tomb of cold air and shadows.
When the heavy iron door finally groaned open, the cold rolled out into the kitchen like a physical presence. Leo went down the stone steps first, his boots clicking with an ominous, steady rhythm that contrast sharply with the panic vibrating through the room. Beatrice followed, ignoring the sharp pain in her knees and the wet warmth of the blood dripping down her neck.
At the bottom of the stairs, illuminated by the harsh glare of a single overhead bulb, Lily lay curled on her side. She looked so small against the gray concrete, her favorite stuffed rabbit tucked under her chin as if it could protect her from the dark.
"Lily," Leo breathed.
For a man who had faced down federal prosecutors and rival cartel bosses without a single flicker of emotion, the sight of his daughter lying still on the floor broke him in an instant. He dropped to his knees, his hands—hands that had signed death warrants—shaking as he lifted her into his arms.
"Lay her flat," Beatrice said, her voice commanding despite her pain. She slid down the last three steps, landing hard on her knees beside them. "Mr. Rossi, lay her flat. We need to open her airway."
Leo looked at Beatrice, his eyes wide and dark with a rare, helpless terror. In this world of violence and strategy, he was a king; in the face of his daughter’s failing body, he was entirely powerless. He did what the maid told him to do. He laid Lily flat on the concrete, tilting her head back with gentle, trembling fingers.
Beatrice pressed two fingers to the side of Lily's throat. The pulse was there, but it was weak, like the flutter of a dying bird’s wing. She leaned down, placing her ear near the little girl's mouth.
"Is she breathing?" Leo whispered, his voice raw.
"Barely," Beatrice said. "We need the inhaler. Now!"
As if on cue, Mateo appeared at the top of the stairs, lunging down the stone steps with the pink plastic case in his hand. He had run to Lily’s room, knowing exactly where Beatrice had indicated. He handed it to Beatrice, his face grim.
"Come on, sweetie," Beatrice whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. She shook the inhaler with her swollen, purple fingers, her movements precise despite the pain. She placed the spacer to Lily’s blue-tinted lips. "You have to take a breath for Bee. Just one big breath."
She pressed the canister. The mist entered the chamber.
Lily did not move.
"Again," Leo urged, his hand hovering over his daughter’s chest, his jaw clamped shut so tightly his teeth threatened to crack.
Beatrice pressed it a second time. "Breathe, Lily. Please, baby. Breathe."
For three agonizing seconds, the cellar was entirely silent. The only sound was the distant hum of the mansion's generator. Then, a sharp, ragged gasp tore from Lily’s chest. Her little body convulsed, her eyes flying open, wild and unfocused with panic as she struggled to pull the medicine into her lungs.
"Daddy!" she cried, her voice a tiny, raspy squeak.
Leo gathered her up so fast it was a blur. He held her against his chest, burying his face in her dark hair, his shoulders shaking. "I'm here, baby. I'm here. Papa's got you. You're safe."
Lily’s small hand reached out, searching through the dim light of the cellar. "Bee..." she whimpered.
Beatrice reached out, letting Lily's small, sticky fingers wrap around her own swollen thumb. "I'm right here, sweet girl. You're okay now. The dragon is safe."
Lily closed her eyes, her breathing slowly stabilizing as the medicine took hold, her head resting against her father’s shoulder.
Leo looked up from his daughter. He looked at Beatrice, taking in the deep cut on her cheek, the swollen hand she was using to hold Lily's fingers, and the quiet dignity with which she sat on the dirty concrete floor.
"Mateo," Leo said, his voice returning to that low, terrifying calm.
"Yeah, Leo?"
"Carry Beatrice upstairs. Carefully."
"I can walk, Mr. Rossi," Beatrice said, trying to push herself up, but her knees buckled under the sudden release of adrenaline.
May you like
Mateo didn't listen to her protests. He scooped her up in his arms, his face soft with a rare gentleness. "Quiet, Beatrice. You've done enough running for one day."
As they carried them up the stairs, away from the cold of the cellar, the sound of Victoria’s crying began to echo from the kitchen. She was no longer screaming. She had realized, finally, what she had done, and whose child she had tried to destroy.
