Chapter 3 - Into the Cellar
The Blackwell estate wine cellar sat forty feet beneath the limestone foundation, insulated by two feet of bedrock and reinforced vault steel. To the elite guests upstairs, it was a museum of rare Burgundies and pre-war champagnes. To Damon Blackwell, it was an abattoir.
Preston Caldwell stumbled down the stone steps, propelled forward by a shove that sent him sprawling across the cold flagstones.
“What the hell is this?” Preston yelled, scrambling to his feet, straightening his custom tuxedo jacket. His hair was disheveled, smelling of expensive bourbon and nervous sweat. “Do you know who my father is? If I’m not back on that dance floor in ten minutes, Senator Caldwell will have the National Guard tearing this mausoleum apart!”
From the shadows near the tasting table, a match flared.
Damon lit a thin cigar, the orange flame illuminating his predatory eyes. Beside him, Walken tossed five heavy phones onto the table. Each screen was shattered.
“Your father has already left, Preston,” Damon said evenly.
Preston laughed nervously. “Bullshit. We came in the same limousine.”
“His driver received an emergency dispatch thirty seconds ago,” Walken explained without emotion. “A sudden, highly credible leak to the press regarding an offshore account in the Caymans containing twelve million dollars in undeclared defense lobbying bribes. The Senator is currently speeding toward his communications director’s house in Bethesda. He turned off his phone.”
Preston blinked, the arrogance slowly draining from his features, replaced by a hollow, sickening terror. “You’re bluffing.”
Damon took a measured draw from the cigar, letting the blue smoke curl toward the vaulted ceiling. “Your four friends from the library—the ones who held the door while you pushed Kate Bennett against the wall—are currently resting in the trunk of a reinforced freight hauler heading toward an industrial furnace in Jersey City.”
Preston took a step back, hitting the damp stone wall. “It was just a maid! She dropped a tray! I grabbed her—she slipped! It was an accident, Damon!”
“Her name is Kate,” Damon said, his voice terrifyingly calm as he stepped forward. “She has an honors degree in literature that she couldn't use because she works eighty hours a week cleaning floors to keep her dying mother breathing. And you broke her arm because she didn't want your filthy hands on her skin.”
“I’ll pay her!” Preston screamed, his voice cracking into a shrill plea. “A million dollars! Two million! My family will write a blank check! Just let me walk out that door!”
Damon stopped six inches from Preston’s face. The height difference was suffocating.
“You broke her right arm,” Damon whispered. “The arm she uses to hold her mother’s hand.”
Damon nodded once to Matteo.
Matteo grabbed Preston’s right wrist, pinning it flat against the solid oak tasting table.
“No! No, please! God, please!” Preston wailed, struggling wildly, but Matteo held him down with the strength of an industrial press.
Damon picked up a heavy, lead-weighted bottle of 1945 Romanée-Conti.
“Let’s see how loud you scream when there’s no string quartet to cover the noise.”
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A muffled snap echoed through the cellar, followed by a howl of agony that was violently choked off when Walken sealed the vault door.
***
