Chapter 4: The Basement Furnace
The basement of the Vance estate was a cathedral of industrial intimidation. Massive iron pipes hissed with steam, running along the gray concrete ceiling like the veins of a subterranean beast. In the center of the room sat the incinerator—a hulking furnace with a heavy steel door that radiated a dry, suffocating heat. Viktor had carried Clara’s portrait down the three flights of stairs, his heavy boots echoing against the stone floor, while Custa toddled closely behind, holding onto the hem of Viktor's dark trousers.
Eleanor stood near the control panel of the furnace, her beige lace dress looking absurdly out of place among the soot and machinery. Her face was tight, her lips pressed into a thin line. She watched Viktor set the large framed portrait against the brick base of the incinerator.
"It's time to finish it, Viktor," Eleanor said, her voice dry as parchment. "Keeping her face around only encourages the boy to harbor foolish notions of escape. The Vance name is a prison, not a hotel. The sooner he understands that, the less he will suffer."
Viktor looked down at the painting, then sideways at Custa, who stood silently beside the heavy steel door, his blue eyes reflecting the orange glow of the pilot light inside. The boy didn't cry this time. The tears had dried into thin salt tracks on his rosy cheeks. He reached out and touched the corner of the wooden frame where his mother’s signature remained visible.
"No," Custa said, his voice surprisingly clear in the cavernous room.
Eleanor raised an eyebrow, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her aged features. "He speaks. And he presumes to negotiate. How charming. Viktor, put it in the fire."
Viktor reached down, his massive hands gripping the sides of the frame. He lifted it toward the open iron mouth of the furnace. The heat washed over them, smelling of scorched dust and old memories. But as Viktor looked into the toddler's wide, tear-rimmed eyes, his arms trembled slightly. He remembered Clara as a little girl, running through these very halls before Eleanor and the family empire crushed her spirit. He remembered the promise he had made to protect her—a promise he had ultimately failed to keep.
With a sudden, violent motion, Viktor pulled the painting away from the fire, turned around, and slammed the heavy steel furnace door shut. The loud metallic clang echoed off the concrete walls like a gunshot.
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"No," Viktor said, his voice hard as flint, though whether he was addressing Eleanor or his own conscience remained unclear. "We keep it. Not in the attic. In the safe room behind my office. Where it can serve as a reminder of what happens when you try to cage a wild animal."
Eleanor stared at Viktor, her expression turning glacial. "You are growing soft in your old age, Viktor. Sentimentality is a disease in our family, and it always kills the host."
