Chapter 35 - MIDNIGHT CONSPIRACY
“Down!” Vincent roared in the darkness.
Before I could react, Elena’s arm hooked around my waist, dragging me and Hope out of the chair and under the heavy mahogany table. A second later, the sharp, deafening chatter of suppressed gunfire ripped through the upper half of the dining room.
Glass shattered into thousands of crystal shards, raining down onto the rug above us. The fine china clattered, plates spinning off the table edge and exploding against the floor. Hope began to scream—a shrill, terrified wail that pierced straight through the chaos.
“Elena!” I gasped, wrapping my entire body over my baby, shielding her with my spine as chunks of plaster and splintered wood rained down.
“Stay flat!” Elena commanded, her pistol barking twice into the dark. Muzzle flashes illuminated the dining room in jagged strobes of violent white light. In the brief flashes, I saw shadows moving through the shattered entrance doors—men in grey tactical gear, firing controlled bursts toward the top of the room.
Vincent wasn't under the table.
Through the flashing strobes, I caught sight of him. He was a demon unleashed. He tackled one of the intruders into a grandfather clock, the wood splintering under the impact. Vincent’s blade flashed, catching the ambient light, and the man collapsed with a gurgling groan. Vincent snatched the fallen man’s submachine gun, spinning around and spraying a lethal arc toward the foyer doors.
“Salvatore pulled his men inside!” Vincent shouted over the noise. “The Brooklyn faction breached the basement generators! Leo, hold the north corridor!”
Suddenly, the red emergency auxiliary lights hummed to life, bathing the entire room in a bloody, surreal crimson glow.
Salvatore was gone.
The seat at the head of the table was empty, the heavy silver cloche tossed aside, revealing a small, black electronic transponder blinking rhythmically on the linen tablecloth.
“He didn't come to negotiate,” Elena hissed, scrambling out from under the table, her dress torn, blood trickling from a small cut on her temple. “The dinner was a diversion to let his infiltration team breach the security sublevels!”
“Sarah, move!” Vincent yelled, grabbing me by the arm and yanking me to my feet. Hope was sobbing hysterically against my chest, her little face red, hyperventilating from the terror. “They aren't trying to kill us—they’re trying to isolate you! He wants Hope!”
We ran out of the ruined dining room, stepping over two downed mercenaries. The air in the central corridor was thick with the acrid stench of cordite. In the distance, alarms were finally wailing, but their pitch was warped, struggling against the failing emergency batteries.
“We can’t hold the estate,” Elena said, checking the magazine of her pistol as we sprinted toward the private elevator. “If Brooklyn has turned, Salvatore has over eighty men between the gate and the river. We’re boxed in.”
“The river,” Vincent said, his mind calculating variables at lightning speed. “Daniel’s boathouse. The underground tunnel from the wine cellar leads directly beneath the seawall. Daniel had an offshore cigarette boat docked there for emergencies.”
“You knew about that?” I asked, breathless, my legs burning as we descended the concrete service stairs leading into the sub-basement.
“Daniel told me everything the night he died,” Vincent said, kicking open the iron door that led into the cold, stone-lined wine vaults. “He didn't trust me completely, Sarah—Salvatore was right about that. But he trusted me more than he trusted my father. Daniel knew Salvatore’s greed would eventually bring him to this house. He left the boat key in the heavy suitcase you brought me.”
We rounded a corner of dusty wine racks, the temperature dropping sharply. Ahead of us lay a heavy steel blast door, its electronic keypad dead.
“It’s powered down,” Elena said, her voice dropping in despair. “The main generator failure locked the mag-latches.”
Vincent stepped forward, discarding his empty weapon. From his pocket, he pulled a mechanical bypass key—a physical, brass-toothed relic Daniel had kept hidden inside the lining of the suitcase’s handle. He slammed it into the emergency override cylinder and turned it with all his strength.
With a grinding groan of heavy gears, the blast door cracked open three inches.
A cold, damp draft smelling of river water and motor oil rushed through the gap.
“Elena, take Sarah and the baby through,” Vincent commanded, pulling the door open wide enough for them to squeeze past.
Elena stopped, looking at him with wide, horrified eyes. “Vincent, no. You’re coming with us.”
“Someone has to seal this door from the inside,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a calm, resolute cadence that terrified me more than the gunfire. “The override locks automatically when triggered from the outside, but the manual lever has to be held down until the tumblers engage. If I don't hold it, Salvatore’s men will blow the hinges in sixty seconds and overtake the boat before you clear the bay.”
“Vincent, please!” I cried, reaching out to touch his arm. Despite everything, despite the violence and the darkness that clung to him, he had bled for my daughter. He had shielded us when he could have traded us for billions.
Vincent looked at Hope. He reached out, his bloody, calloused thumb gently brushing a tear from the baby’s cheek. Hope’s crying suddenly quieted, her wide, innocent eyes staring up at the mafia boss who had chosen to be her shield.
“She deserves a life without iron gates, Sarah,” Vincent whispered. Then he looked at Elena, his expression raw, stripped of all arrogance. “Get them to Vermont. Use the coordinates in Daniel’s green binder. I’ll meet you there... or I won’t.”
“Vincent—” Elena choked, but before she could finish, he shoved both of us through the narrow gap into the pitch-black tunnel.
“Run!” Vincent roared.
May you like
He slammed the steel lever down. The massive door crashed shut with the finality of a tomb, the heavy mechanical bolts sliding home with a series of deafening clanks.
On our side of the door, there was only darkness, the damp smell of the river, and the distant, muffled sound of Vincent’s rifle opening fire once again.
