Chapter 10: Marta's Key

Marta didn't say another word until we were up the stone stairs.

She put a finger to her lips and led us through the narrow back hall that ran behind Carlo's kitchen.

Her apron strings were tied in a double knot.

Her hands, on the iron key ring, were as steady as a surgeon's.

"There's one man in the pantry," she whispered. "One in the front hall. The others went upstairs when Carlo said to rest."

"How long have you had the key?" Santino asked.

"Fifteen years."

He stared at her.

"Carlo gave it to me when I started cooking for his table," Marta said. "In case the cellar flooded and I needed to save the wine."

Her mouth twisted.

"I never thought I'd use it to save you."

We reached the kitchen doorway.

A heavy man sat in a chair by the pantry with his back to us, eating a plate of Marta's leftover veal.

His pistol lay on the table beside the plate.

Santino moved past me without a sound.

He took three steps across the tile and wrapped one forearm around the man's neck, and the man's fork clattered to the floor.

He kicked and clawed, and then he went slack.

Santino lowered him into the chair.

He picked up the pistol from the table and tucked it into his waistband.

"The back door," Marta breathed. "The van is in the alley."

We crossed the kitchen, past the huge steel stove and the pot of sauce she'd never finished.

I was holding my dress together with one hand.

My feet were bare, because I'd left my shoes in the cellar.

Marta unlocked the back door and pushed it open on a cold black night.

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