Chapter 2 - The Hollow Wall and the Erased Room
The discovery of the hollow space behind the portrait of Dominic’s grandfather consumed my thoughts for forty-eight hours. The Caruso estate was built like a fortress during the Prohibition era, riddled with hidden utility chases, old bootlegging passages, and structural quirks that the original blueprints conveniently omitted. But this particular void didn't align with any architectural drawings I had studied during my initial property audit.
It was late afternoon when I finally decided to investigate further. The rain had cleared, leaving behind a thick, grey fog that blanketed the fourteen acres of manicured lawns and dense timber surrounding the estate. Dominic was locked in his study with several high-ranking associates, the low murmur of their tense negotiations filtering through the heavy oak doors down the hall.
Armed with a small flashlight and a flat-head screwdriver from the maintenance closet, I slipped back into the west gallery.
I traced the seams of the wallpaper where the portrait used to hang. Unlike the rest of the room’s ornate wood paneling, this specific section was covered in heavy, damask-patterned fabric stretched over a wooden frame—a false wall designed to blend seamlessly into the decorative scheme. Working carefully, I wedged the screwdriver into the narrow gap between the molding and the plaster.
With a soft, muffled pop, the latch gave way.
The panel swung inward on concealed hinges, releasing a puff of cold, stagnant air that smelled faintly of old parchment, damp earth, and dried lavender—a scent that hadn't belonged in this house for at least thirty years.
I clicked on my flashlight and stepped across the threshold.
The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating a narrow, windowless room no larger than a walk-in closet. But it wasn't empty. Dust motes danced in the pale circle of light, settling over an old oak writing desk covered in stacks of sealed envelopes, yellowed newspaper clippings, and a single, cracked leather photo album.
Curiosity overriding my common sense, I stepped inside and opened the album. The pages were filled with photographs of a young woman with kind eyes and dark hair, standing in these very gardens, smiling brightly beside a much younger Dominic and a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Aunt Rosa. But across every single face in every single photograph, a violent red marker had been aggressively slashed through the images. Someone hadn't just removed them from the family history; they had tried to erase their very existence.
“What are you doing in there?”
A voice cut through the stillness of the hidden room, cold and sharp as broken glass.
I jumped so hard I nearly dropped the flashlight, spinning around to find Dominic standing in the open doorway. His face was a mask of absolute stone, his eyes dark and burning with an intensity that made the temperature in the small room drop ten degrees.
“Dominic,” I breathed, clutching the photo album to my chest. “I... I was dusting the gallery, and the wall panel gave way. I heard it sound hollow, and—and I wanted to make sure there wasn't a mold infestation behind the—'
“Put it down,” he interrupted, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet whisper.
I didn't move. I looked down at the defaced photographs in my hands, then back up at him. “Who is she, Dominic? Who lived in this room?”
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For a long moment, I thought he was going to draw the weapon I knew he kept holstered beneath his jacket. His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked in his cheek. He stepped into the confined space, towering over me, the sheer physical presence of the mafia boss suffocatingly close.
“That room,” Dominic said slowly, his voice laced with a raw, ancient pain, “was wiped from this estate the night my mother was murdered. And everyone who ever tried to look for her... ended up just like the photographs.”
