Breath in the Basement

Chapter One: The Man at the Top of the Stairs

The basement door flew open, shaking dust from the ceiling. Evan stood in the shadow of the doorway at the top of the stairs. Light from the kitchen outlined his shoulders, but most of his face remained hidden in darkness. One hand gripped the railing; the other hung at his side, his fingers opening and closing as though they still remembered the feel of my wrist.

I pressed the cracked phone to my cheek. Each breath drove a sharp pain through my chest. I did not yet know that three ribs were broken; I only knew that any attempt to breathe deeply sent a sickening ache through my left side.

Evan started walking down. Step by step. Slowly and surely.

“You still haven’t learned, have you?”

I pressed my body against the cold concrete wall. The basement smelled of mold, thinner, and metal dust from old tools. The right side of my face had begun to swell, and dried blood clung to my lower lip.

The buzzing sound of electricity came from the broken mobile phone. My father was still on the line. I had given him my address, even though he knew where we lived from the time Evan and I bought the house.

“Dad,” I whispered, fighting tears. “He broke my ribs.”

Evan stopped halfway up the stairs. His eyes snapped to the phone.

“Who are you talking to?”

I heard my father’s deep voice coming from the receiver:

“Stay awake. I’ll be right there.”

A faint smile touched my mouth—not from joy, but from the sudden certainty that I was no longer alone. Evan saw it. His expression changed, and he bounded down the remaining stairs before crouching in front of me.

“Give me your phone.”

He reached for it. I turned sharply. The pain exploded, and my shoulder hit the wall hard, but I tightly protected the phone and hid it out of reach.

“Claire.”

His voice dropped. Whenever he spoke in this tone, it was often when he was at his most dangerous. He’s not yelling. But when he was convinced that he could still boil a frog in warm water to regain control.

“Give me your phone and we can sort this out.”

“You’ve already tried to 'fix' me.”

“You publicly humiliated Olivia in the restaurant.”

“I just slapped her.”

“You’ve disgraced me.”

“You broke my ribs.”

“You came into my business meeting and made a scene.”

“I just called your name.”

“You attacked a woman.”

“And you almost killed your wife.”

His jawline was tight. He grabbed my wrist. I swallowed a scream and jerked his arm downwards. The phone slipped from my hand, hit the floor, and finally slipped under the bottom storage shelf. The screen is still on.

The call timer continues to tick. Evan got down on one knee and reached into the bottom of the shelf. I brought my legs up to my chest and kicked hard on his forearms with my heels.

He turned around furiously.

“Who did you call?”

I raised my face. The fear doesn’t go away. It’s just that there is something colder next to it.

“The only man who can scare you.”

There was a faint roar of an engine outside the door. Evan froze. Then, the first thump came from upstairs. It shook so hard that the ceiling in the basement trembled. He suddenly raised his head and looked towards the stairs.

“What did you tell him?”

I leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

“All.”

Another blow landed above our heads. Slower than before. Also heavier. Evan stood up straight. In the past, he always smiled cautiously in front of my father. Vincent Moretti didn’t even have to raise his voice to make a room full of people reconsider their loyalties. Newspapers called him a logistics tycoon. Prosecutors have used other words to describe him. And those who owed him money respectfully called him sir.

Evan once told me that marrying Vincent Moretti’s daughter meant that no one in the world would dare to touch him. The only thing he hadn’t thought about was that this warning could also be used the other way around.

He turned and rushed towards the stairs. The basement door slammed shut behind him. I gritted my teeth and crawled toward the shelf. I slid my fingers under the metal frame and finally found the phone.

“Dad?”

“I’m here.”

“How’s it going outside?”

“Stay there and don’t move.”

“Evan is upstairs.”

“Don’t follow up.”

“Did you bring anyone here?”

There was a brief silence.

“Bring it.”

My stomach lurched.

“Dad, what I just said is-”

“I heard what you said.”

“Don’t let them get out alive.”

“That’s because you’re in pain and talking nonsense.”

“They deserve it-”

“No.”

This word is decisive.

“No bodies. No graves. No families that just disappeared.”

There was another loud bang overhead. Then there were voices. Several voices. The voice giving orders. There was also the voice of a woman who claimed to be a police officer. My father’s voice came again:

“You get out of this house alive and well. And they must also survive and pay the price for what they did tonight.”

I closed my eyes. A minute later, the basement door opened again. It wasn’t Evan who came down. A uniformed police officer walked out at the head of the group, his gun pointed downwards, but on alert at all times. Following closely behind was a paramedic carrying a first aid kit.

Then, I saw my father. Vincent stood at the top of the stairs, wearing a black cashmere coat over a dark suit. His silver hair was wet from the rain. Behind him stood two men, neither of them carrying any visible weapons.

It wasn’t until he saw me that the mask on his face finally cracked. No yelling. His shoulders slumped slightly, half an inch. His eyes turned into the eyes of my father who held me around seeking medical treatment when I had a high fever when I was six years old.

“Claire.”

The paramedics were the first to rush to my side. My father, on the other hand, stood honestly outside the security line designated by the police. This alone is enough to show that everything has changed.

Evan originally thought that Vincent Moretti would break into his home like an invading army. But in reality, what my father brought was a search warrant, state troopers, an ambulance, and a lawyer. As the paramedic put the oxygen mask on my nose, I asked:

“Where’s Evan?”

The police officer replied:

“Already detained upstairs.”

“Is it because he hit me?”

“It is because he obstructed urgent official duties and attempted to destroy the mobile phone used as evidence. As for other charges, they will be decided after further investigation.”

My father’s eyes moved to the ground beneath the shelves.

“The phone is still on,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“How?”

“The second you gave your address, I transferred the signal directly to the emergency dispatch center and my lawyer.”

“Did you record what you just said?”

“Every word.”

The first responders carefully lifted me onto a stretcher. When I was carried upstairs, I saw Evan being handcuffed to the wall in the hallway. His mother, Diane, stood near the kitchen, shouting hysterically into her phone.

His father, Martin Hale, is demanding direct talks with the police chief. His younger brother, Grant, was pacing restlessly by the dining room. As for Olivia, the woman who seduced my husband in the restaurant, she wasn’t there.

Evan stared hard at my father.

“You actually called the police?”

Vincent stopped in front of him. Evan let out a desperate, bitter laugh.

“How did the arrogant Vincent Moretti become like this?”

My father looked at me on the stretcher. Then I looked back at my husband.

“I became the witness you should have feared from the beginning.”