Chapter 119: The Wine Cellar
The door to the wine cellar was locked from the outside.
Clementine stood on her tiptoes, her fingers barely reaching the gap beneath the door. Her nails scraped against the wooden planks as she pulled with all her strength.
The door didn't budge.
She tried again, this time pushing inward, but it still wouldn't move.
Taking two steps back, she clenched her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms.
She couldn't cry.
Lee had taught her that when something happened, panic was the last thing she should do. First, she needed to look around and see what resources were available.
The wine cellar wasn't large. Damp stone walls surrounded her on all four sides, covered in patches of dark green moss.
A dozen empty wine barrels were stacked in the corner, arranged in two layers. The top barrel sat at an angle, looking as though it might fall at any moment.
Near the door, a row of iron wine racks was bolted to the wall. Several dusty bottles of red wine remained untouched.
Clementine walked over and stood on her tiptoes to grab one.
Holding it by the neck, she smashed it against the corner of the wall.
The bottle shattered.
Wine splashed across the floor, filling the room with the sour scent of fermentation.
She picked up a shard of glass and held it tightly. Its sharp edge cut into her palm, causing a stinging pain.
Switching hands, she hid the shard inside her sleeve and crouched beside the door, staring at the thin strip of light shining through the gap.
Footsteps.
They were light and cautious, unlike the heavy footsteps of Diego's men with their Hawaiian shirts and thick gold chains.
Clementine pressed herself against the wall and tightened her grip on the glass shard.
A shadow blocked the light beneath the door.
Then came the sound of a key sliding into the lock.
Click.
The door opened.
A woman stood in the doorway wearing a white server's uniform. Oil stains covered her apron, and she carried a tray with a bowl of porridge and half a loaf of bread.
She noticed the shard of glass in Clementine's hand and paused.
Then she slowly crouched down and met the girl's eyes.
"Don't be afraid. I'm not one of them."
Her voice was gentle, carrying a faint Southern accent.
Clementine remained silent.
The shard stayed firmly in her hand.
The woman wasn't in a hurry. She simply rested her hands on her knees, palms facing upward to show she carried no weapon.
"My name is Elena. I work in the kitchen. They sent me to bring you food."
She glanced over her shoulder before lowering her voice.
"My daughter was about your age. She was nine years old when she died last year."
Clementine's grip loosened slightly.
Elena pushed the tray forward.
"Eat. Afterward, I'll get you out of here."
Clementine looked down at the bowl of oatmeal porridge.
It was thin enough to count the oats floating inside, but steam still rose from its surface.
She picked up the bowl and drank it in several gulps.
The heat brought tears to her eyes, but she didn't stop.
The bread was stale and difficult to chew, yet she forced herself to finish every bite.
Elena waited patiently.
When Clementine was done, she collected the bowl, stood up, and extended her hand.
"Follow me. Don't make a sound."
Clementine hid the glass shard in her sleeve and took her hand.
The kitchen was located on the hotel's first floor.
To reach it from the wine cellar, they had to pass through a long corridor, turn two corners, and go through a fire door.
The hallway was empty.
Faded hotel posters lined the walls. The beaches and palm trees printed on them remained bright, but the paper curled at the edges with age.
Elena moved quickly, her footsteps so light they were almost silent.
Clementine followed close behind, clutching the hem of her uniform.
Her heart pounded, but she made no sound.
When Elena pushed open the fire door, its hinges creaked.
The noise was soft, yet in the silent hallway it sounded as loud as a gunshot.
Elena immediately froze and listened.
After confirming no one was approaching, she continued forward.
The kitchen was enormous.
Rows of stainless-steel workstations filled the room.
A massive pot still steamed on the stove. Half-chopped onions lay scattered across a cutting board, while kitchen knives rested in a nearby rack.
The smell of spices and cooking oil hung in the air, blending strangely with the salty sea breeze drifting in from outside.
Five people stood behind the workstations.
Men and women.
Young and old.
All wore white uniforms stained with grease and blood.
When Clementine entered, none of them seemed surprised.
It was as though they had been expecting her.
...
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