Chapter 3 - The Path Through the Reeds
By 4:00 AM, the heavy storm above had turned into a thick, clinging fog that hung over the cold waters of Lake Como like a wool blanket.
I carried Emma on my back, wrapped securely inside my wool coat, while Lorenzo walked beside me, using a heavy oak walking stick he had found in the storm room to support his right side.
We emerged not through the gardening shed, but through a hidden iron grate situated inside a drainage culvert fifty yards down the hill, right at the edge of the estate’s private shoreline.
The water was freezing, lapping softly against the rocky shore. Tall, thick reeds grew along the marshy bank, providing perfect cover from the searchlights that occasionally swept across the upper lawns from the mansion’s terraces.
"The estate boathouse is two hundred yards to the north," Lorenzo whispered, crouching low behind a thick cluster of willow trees, his chest rising and falling heavily. "Beatrice’s guards will be watching the main launches."
"What about the smaller docks?" I asked, pulling my coat tighter around Emma, who was blinking her eyes sleepily against the damp cold air.
"My father kept an old wooden rowing skiff inside the gardener's shed near the south pier," Lorenzo said. "No engine. No electronics. It doesn't show up on thermal sensors if we stay close to the tree line."
"Mama," Emma whispered, rubbing her eyes with her small fist. "Are we going on a boat?"
"Yes, sweetheart," I murmured, kissing her wet cheek. "We're taking the gentleman for a boat ride."
"Is his bear bandage wet?"
Lorenzo looked down at Emma, his stern, blood-stained face softening into a look of quiet, genuine warmth. He reached out with his large, calloused hand and gently tucked a stray brown curl behind her ear.
"The bear is dry, little one," Lorenzo whispered. "Thanks to you."
We moved slowly along the muddy shoreline, stepping quietly through the tall grass. Every few minutes, the flashlights of patrol guards flickered through the trees above, accompanied by the distant, echoing sound of security radios crackling with static.
Beatrice was growing desperate. As the hours ticked toward dawn, she knew that if Lorenzo’s body was not found before the morning staff arrived, her narrative would collapse.
We reached the small wooden south pier.
Inside a rotting wooden shed sat a fourteen-foot cedar rowing skiff, resting on wooden rollers. Two long wooden oars lay across the bench seats.
Lorenzo stepped into the shed, grabbing the bow of the boat to push it into the water, but his injury caught him. He let out a sharp, gasping cough, staggering against the wooden wall, blood seeping through the fresh bandages on his side.
"Stop!" I commanded, setting Emma down on a dry canvas sack. "You are going to rip your internal sutures!"
"We don't have time, Clara," Lorenzo gritted out through his teeth, sweat pouring down his pale forehead. "If we don't cross the lake before sunrise—"
"I will row," I interrupted firmly.
Lorenzo blinked at me in disbelief. "You? The lake is two miles wide, the current is strong, and the water is freezing."
"I grew up in a fishing village near Lake Garda, Mr. Duca," I said, grabbing the boat’s bow and effortlessly sliding the oiled cedar hull off the rollers into the dark, quiet water. "I was rowing wooden skiffs before I learned to drive a car. Get in."
Lorenzo stared at me for two long seconds, a look of profound, unyielding respect shining in his dark eyes.
Without another word, he stepped carefully into the boat, settling onto the rear bench seat, while I lifted Emma into the middle and took my place at the oars.
I pushed off from the wooden pier.
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The wooden oars dipped into the black, icy water with quiet, rhythmic precision: Splash... pull... slide. Splash... pull... slide.
The small boat glided silently through the thick fog, disappearing into the vast, protective darkness of the lake, leaving the blood-soaked grounds of Villa Duca behind us.
