Chapter 2 - Blood in the Lower Cellar
The blast tore through the service floor.
Crystal chandeliers shattered into thousands of glass needles.
Screams ripped through the dining room.
Smoke poured through the cracks in the oak floorboards.
Camilla shrieked, dropping her phone onto the carpet.
Patrons trampled each other rushing toward the velvet-draped exits.
Alessandro didn’t panic.
His hand stayed locked around my wrist.
His grip was bruised steel.
He shoved me behind his broad frame.
“Marco! Dante!” Alessandro barked through the dust. “Seal the front doors. Keep
the civilians alive.”
“Boss, the kitchen is on fire!” Marco yelled back, pulling a heavy Glock.
“Laurent didn’t set a fire to escape,” Alessandro said.
His voice was dead calm.
“He set a fire to burn the cellar.”
Alessandro turned his dark eyes down toward me.
“You’re coming with me, Dubois.”
“Let me go!” I gasped, coughing on sulfuric smoke. “I need to get out!”
“If you walk out that door, my uncle’s hitmen will shoot you in the alley.”
He hauled me toward the rear service corridor.
The air grew thick with acrid black smoke.
We kicked through shattered plates and spilled lobster bisque.
The heavy steel fire door to the basement stood ajar.
A bloody handprint streaked down the gray metal frame.
Laurent was down there.
Alessandro drew a matte-black pistol from beneath his jacket.
He didn't hesitate.
He took the concrete steps two at a time.
I had no choice but to follow his shadow.
The lower wine cellar was a maze of brick and damp stone.
Rows of dust-covered bottles stretched into deep darkness.
The air smelled like wet earth, aged oak, and fresh copper.
Blood.
I covered my mouth.
Ten yards ahead, a flashlight beam bobbed frantically against the stone wall.
Monsieur Laurent was on his knees before an antique iron safe.
He held a bottle of industrial solvent in one shaking hand.
A lighter sparked in the other.
A thick, leather-bound journal lay half-pulled from the wall cavity.
It had my father’s initials stamped in gold: E.D.
My heart stopped.
“Laurent!” Alessandro’s voice echoed like a thunderclap.
The maître d' jumped.
He dropped the lighter onto the damp concrete.
He turned his pale, sweating face toward us.
In his right hand, he held a snub-nosed revolver.
“Stay back, Moretti!” Laurent screamed.
His voice cracked with sheer madness.
“You don't understand what’s in this book!”
“I understand treason,” Alessandro said, stepping forward.
Each of Alessandro’s steps was slow and measured.
He didn't raise his gun.
He held it loosely at his side.
That was scarier.
“You worked for my father for twenty years, Laurent,” Alessandro whispered.
“Your father was weak!” Laurent spat. “He believed in honor! Honor doesn't pay
the dock tariffs!”
Laurent pointed the gun straight at my forehead.
“And this little rat shouldn’t be breathing.”
My muscles locked up.
Cold sweat poured into my eyes.
“She decoded the fox,” Laurent hissed. “Her father hid the true accounts here
before he ran. Your uncle paid me three million to torch it tonight!”
“My uncle?” Alessandro’s jaw hardened.
The atmosphere in the room plummeted below freezing.
“Carlo ordered this?” Alessandro asked softly.
“Carlo runs New York now!” Laurent shrieked.
Laurent pulled the trigger.
Alessandro lunged sideways, tackling me hard to the stone floor.
The gunshot deafened me.
A brick exploded into dust right where my head had been.
Alessandro fired twice from the floor.
Two dull, suppressed thuds.
Laurent let out a wet gasp.
He dropped his revolver.
He collapsed against the iron safe, clutching his chest.
Dark blood pooled over the concrete, soaking the hem of my frayed apron.
Alessandro stood up immediately.
He didn't check Laurent’s pulse.
He knew his aim.
He snatched the leather ledger before the solvent could reach it.
He wiped the blood from the cover with his sleeve.
He looked down at me.
I was trembling on the wet stones, covered in soot and dust.
“Can you open it?” he demanded.
“It... it has a combination,” I stuttered, my teeth chattering.
“Look at the lock, Sophie.”
I dragged myself up to the book.
The brass clasp featured a four-dial alphabet cipher.
My father’s favorite word puzzle.
I thought of his dying words in our squalid apartment:
Remember the light behind the star.
“L-U-M-E,” I whispered, spinning the dials.
Click.
The brass lock sprang open.
Inside were hundreds of pages filled with banking stamps, signatures, and dates.
At the very top of the first ledger page was a name.
Carlo Moretti.
Beside it was a payout confirmation for eight million dollars.
And below that was a forged signature bearing my father’s name.
My father was innocent.
Tears burned my eyes.
“He didn't steal it,” I sobbed. “He was framed.”
Alessandro stared down at the handwriting of his own blood uncle.
His knuckles turned white around the grip of his pistol.
Suddenly, heavy boots pounded down the iron staircase.
Three men in black tactical gear appeared at the landing.
They carried submachine guns.
They didn't wear Moretti family pins.
They wore red armbands.
Uncle Carlo’s death squad.
The lead gunman raised his barrel directly at Alessandro’s back.
“Boss, look out!” I screamed.
May you like
The gunman fired a hail of suppressed rounds.
Alessandro threw his body over mine as the world exploded into stone and fire.
