Chapter 6 - Shadows on the Stone Terrace
The deafening roar of automatic weapons echoed through the estate’s grand foyer. Marble shards exploded from the pillars as Luca dove behind the heavy oak staircase, pulling a custom .45 from his holster.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
Luca returned fire with lethal precision. One of Salvatore’s front guards collapsed instantly, his weapon skittering across the polished floor.
“Lily, move!” Luca’s voice cut through the chaos from below.
I didn’t hesitate. I sprinted down the back service stairs, my heart pounding violently against my ribs. The sharp smell of cordite and smoke filled the upper corridors.
I burst into the wine cellar. Thomas was waiting by the hidden stone archway behind the vintage racks, holding a heavy iron pry bar in his uninjured hand.
“They’re shooting in the main hall,” I gasped, grabbing his arm. “Salvatore and Marco are here!”
“Then the time for talking is done,” Thomas said grimly. “This way, lass!”
He hauled open the heavy wooden door disguised as a brick alcove. Cold, earthy air rushed up from the subterranean tunnel. We scrambled down the narrow stone steps, guided only by the dim yellow emergency bulbs strung along the ceiling.
Behind us, the heavy wooden door at the top of the cellar stairs blew open with a thunderous kick.
“Check the cellar!” Marco Bellini’s voice echoed down the stone corridor. “Find the girl and the hard drive! Kill the old man!”
“Hurry,” Thomas whispered, quickening his pace despite his limp.
The tunnel ran nearly two hundred yards beneath the estate’s expansive lawns, originally built during Prohibition to smuggle spirits from the harbor. At the end of the passage, a rusty iron ladder led up to a trapdoor concealed inside the floor of the detached carriage house.
I climbed first, pushing the heavy wooden hatch open.
The carriage house was pitch black, smelling of motor oil, damp hay, and gasoline. Outside, the distant crackle of gunfire continued around the main house, accompanied by the wailing sirens of security alarms.
“The black sedan is by the rear bay,” Thomas said, breathing heavily as he hauled himself onto the floorboards. “Here are the keys.”
He pressed a key fob into my palm.
“What about you?” I asked, terror gripping my chest. “You’re coming with me!”
“I’ll only slow you down, Lily,” Thomas said, his face lined with quiet dignity. “I know these grounds better than any man alive. I’ll cut the auxiliary power to the gatehouse so you can punch through the north exit without tripping the automated barriers.”
“Thomas, no! They’ll kill you!”
“They’ve been trying to kill me since two o'clock this morning,” he smiled faintly, his eyes steady. “Luca needs you to reach Philadelphia. He needs that girl alive. Go, Lily. Do what Lucia couldn't finish.”
Before I could argue, the rear door of the carriage house was kicked off its hinges.
A Bellini soldier stepped into the moonlight, his weapon raised.
“Found them!” he shouted.
Thomas didn't hesitate. With a roar born of thirty-seven years of defending this land, the sixty-eight-year-old gardener swung the iron pry bar with all his strength, smashing it into the gunman’s weapon. The gun discharged wildly into the wooden rafters, sparks flying everywhere.
“Run, Lily!” Thomas bellowed, grappling with the younger man.
Adrenaline surged through my veins. I drew the compact pistol from my coat, leveled it with both hands as my father had taught me years ago, and fired a shot directly into the wooden doorframe inches from the attacker’s head.
The deafening blast startled the soldier just long enough for Thomas to drive his boot into the man’s knee. The joint snapped with a sickening crunch, and the guard collapsed howling in pain.
I grabbed Thomas by his coat collar. “You are not staying behind! Get in the damn car!”
Thomas looked at me, stunned, then nodded. “Right behind you!”
We dove into the black sedan. I hit the push-button start; the twin-turbo engine roared to life with a deep, muscular growl.
I slammed the transmission into reverse, crashing through the wooden carriage doors in a shower of splintered timber. The tires found traction on the gravel driveway, screaming as I shifted into drive and floored the accelerator.
Headlights flashed in my rearview mirror. An Escalade was pivoting across the grass to cut us off.
Suddenly, a rifle shot rang out from the second-story balcony of the main house.
The front tire of the pursuing Escalade blew apart in a violent burst of shredded rubber. The heavy SUV spun out of control, slamming headfirst into a massive stone fountain and exploding into a geyser of water and steam.
On the balcony stood Luca Moretti, smoke drifting from the barrel of a tactical rifle.
He looked down through the darkness, catching my eyes through the windshield for a split second. He gave a single, resolute nod.
May you like
Go.
I pressed the gas pedal to the floor, smashing through the ornamental wooden gates and hurtling out onto the dark, open highway toward Philadelphia.
