Chapter 24 The Mirror
Valentina
I back out of the room labeled Sharona with careful steps, leaving the dust undisturbed.
Somehow it feels wrong to disrupt it.
Like she’s still here.
Watching.
I don’t close the door all the way—just enough to let it whisper shut without the latch catching. My breath fogs in the cold passage as I press on, flashlight trembling slightly in my grip.
More turns. More narrow hallways.
And then, more doors.
Each one labeled by hand—names scrawled in faded marker or scratched lightly into the wood.
Library.
Cellar.
Pantry.
Carol.
I pause at that one, surprised.
Carol has a passage entry?
Then again, she’s practically family here. It tracks.
I keep going.
Matteo.
My feet stop automatically.
The door is heavier. Reinforced at the edges. I stand there for a moment, heart ticking too loudly. There’s a part of me that wants to open it. Just see.
But no.
Not yet.
I need to know what I’m walking into first.
I file it away.
Mental notes: Matteo. Carol. Sharona. I’ll be back.
The passageway forks again, this time to a slight downward slope, like the house’s bones are angling toward its secrets.
Then I see it—another door.
Office.
My heart kicks harder.
I twist the handle, slow and silent, and slip inside.
The air is different here. Still, like it’s been holding its breath for years.
At first glance, the room is pitch black—until I kill my flashlight and see it. It’s like a small closet of a room between the passage door and the secret panel door to the office.
There’s also a chair. Well that’s peculiar. What is that—
My thought is interrupted by a faint glow from the other side of the wall.
Directly in front of me, mounted to the panel, is a mirror. Not just any mirror, a massive six-foot mirror. Sleek. Gilded. Ornate. I never paid much attention to it the few times I have been to his office.
And it’s see-through.
My breath catches.
It’s a two-way mirror.
I take a step closer.
On the other side, Matteo’s office sits empty. Desk immaculate. Whiskey glass still resting on a leather coaster. That ridiculous white orchid on the credenza blooming in silence like it doesn’t live in a den of wolves.
I move closer, one hand bracing against the cool wall, the other grazing the edge of the mirror.
This… changes everything.
Not only is there a hidden passage into Matteo’s most secure room—but it was installed with full visibility. From this side.
Did he use this to watch someone once?
Does he know these passages exist?
Or was it built so someone could watch his father, or grandfather as I’m sure it’s been like this long before Matteo was born.
Either way, it’s mine now.
And when the time comes, I won’t just enter the room—I’ll know exactly what I’m walking into.
I step away from the mirror, the edge of its gilded frame still cold against my fingertips.
The silence on the other side confirms what I already know: the office is empty.
Time to move.
I press lightly against the hidden panel. It opens with a soft click, revealing the darkened space beyond.
I step through.
Matteo’s office envelops me like a confession booth—rich mahogany, faint cologne, leather and money in the air. I ease the heavy panel to where it’s almost shut but doesn’t latch behind me, leaving me completely alone in the belly of the beast.
The first thing I do is walk to the door.
I test the handle.
Locked.
Of course it is.
He always locks it when he leaves. No doubt out of habit. Out of paranoia. Or maybe because he knows the kind of secrets that sit behind this desk could burn everything down if they landed in the wrong hands.
Like mine.
I turn slowly, taking in the room from this new perspective.
It’s different when no one’s watching.
The power feels less oppressive, more… mine.
A crackling fireplace smolders in the far wall, casting long, flickering shadows across the bookshelves. His chair is angled just slightly away from the desk like he left in a hurry—or was interrupted.
On the surface, everything looks pristine.
Too pristine.
Which means whatever he doesn’t want seen isn’t out in the open.
I slip behind the desk and ease open the top drawer. Pens, a leather-bound notepad, cufflinks in a velvet box.
The second drawer is locked.
Figures.
I crouch down, inspecting the mechanism. Simple lock. Not biometric. That alone feels suspicious for Matteo. He trusts old-fashioned things, but even he isn’t careless.
He must keep the real dirt elsewhere.
My eyes scan the room again.
And then I spot it—a cabinet behind the credenza. Ornate but mismatched compared to the rest of the sleek furnishings.
Old. Almost antique.
A legacy piece, maybe. Or a decoy.
Either way, I make a mental note.
This place isn’t just where he conducts business.
It’s where he hides things.
And now that I have a keyhole into his world, I’ll find them all.
One by one.
My fingers ghost along the edge of the credenza, stopping at the cabinet I clocked earlier. The wood is different—aged, weathered, but lovingly polished. It feels out of place in a room built for intimidation.
I kneel and tug on the top drawer.
It slides open with a quiet groan.
Paper files.
Actual manila folders, thick with documents and handwritten notes. No labels. Just stacks and stacks of old-school records.
Of course.
Matteo would never trust everything to a hard drive. Not something like this. A trait instilled in him by his father I’m sure.
I flip through the first set—shipping manifests, import records, contracts stamped and sealed with the Genovese crest. A lot of numbers, foreign ports, coded item names.
My stomach tightens.
I move to the second drawer—this one thinner, more orderly. Birth certificates, passports, utility bills. Most are fake. Some aren’t.
Everything meticulously filed, cross-referenced by aliases and addresses. A web of identities.
I don’t even know what it’s for yet, but it’s dirty.
Then I reach the bottom drawer.
The metal resists for a second—just enough to make me hesitate.
Then it slides open.
What I find inside knocks the breath from my lungs.
Folders.
Rows of them.
Each labeled with a girl’s name.
Some have missing persons reports included.
Some don’t.
There are photos paperclipped to the files. Faces. Ages. Medical records.
Transaction histories.
Sales records.
Receipts.
My fingers tremble as I reach for one of the folders.
“Sixteen,” I whisper.
“She was sixteen.”
It hits me like a punch.
No.
No, no, no.
I stagger back a step, clutching the file in both hands.
“This is sex trafficking.”