Chapter 5
The stone walls of the mansion’s subterranean wine cellar were cool, lined with thousands of dusty vintage bottles resting in iron racks dating back to the Prohibition era. At the far end of the vaulted corridor, where the private tasting room had been converted into an interrogation cell, Osbert Bellamere sat tied to a heavy oak armchair.
His charcoal jacket had been stripped, leaving him in his sweat-stained white shirt and suspenders. A single overhead tungsten bulb swung gently from a cord, casting harsh, shifting shadows across his bruised wrist and graying temples.
The iron door creaked open. Romina stepped into the cellar, followed by Renzo, who carried a heavy steel lockbox.
Osbert lifted his chin, trying to summon the aristocratic dignity that had sustained him for sixty years. "You can't keep me down here, Romina. Half the guests on that terrace are federal judges and state senators. If I don't walk back up those stairs in twenty minutes, questions will be asked."
"Nobody is asking questions, uncle," Romina said, walking slowly around the perimeter of the room. Her heels clicked softly on the damp flagstones. "I told the guests that you had suffered a mild cardiac episode brought on by the heat. Two of my doctors are currently escorting them through the gardens with gift baskets and apologies. The terrace is empty."
Osbert swallowed, his throat making a dry, clicking sound. "What do you want?"
"I want the name of the man who gave Aldric the transponder," Romina said, stopping directly in front of him.
She reached out and tapped Osbert’s cheek with the back of her manicured knuckles—a gesture of profound, humiliating dominance.
"You thought you were clever, didn't you? You told Aldric to make a scene with Crispin. You told him to draw my attention, to make everyone look at the family squabble on the lawn, while Rhode Island ran speedboats into our southern cove."
Osbert’s eyes widened, a flicker of genuine terror piercing through his aristocratic mask. "Speedboats? What are you talking about? Aldric was just supposed to signal them that the estate guards had shifted to the perimeter!"
"You fool," Romina whispered, her voice dropping into that chilling, subterranean register. "You thought you were hiring muscle to intimidate me at the family council next Tuesday. You thought you were bringing in allies to force me to sign back the shipping lanes."
She leaned down until her face was three inches from Osbert’s ear.
"The Monticello family doesn't do corporate intimidation, Osbert. They do extermination. They took five million dollars of your offshore money, and then they made a private deal with the Corvo family in Boston to wipe out the Bellamere direct line in one clean strike."
Osbert began to tremble, his hands spasming against the ropes binding his wrists. "No... no, that’s impossible. Dominic Monticello gave me his word on his mother’s grave!"
"Dominic Monticello’s mother died in an asylum thirty years ago," Romina said coldly. "He doesn't have a grave to swear on."
From the ceiling above them, the muffled, heavy thud of a high-caliber explosion rattled the foundation of the house. Dust drifted down from the mortar joints between the stone arches, settling on Osbert’s sweaty hair.
Renzo instantly pressed his hand to his ear, listening to the tactical chatter in his radio.
"Breach at the south gatehouse, Boss," Renzo said, his face tightening. "Two utility vans just rammed the barrier. Heavy weapons. Suppressed fire. They're moving up the lower lawn toward the terrace."
Osbert let out a pathetic whimper, his head slumping back against the chair. "God forgive me... what have I done?"
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Romina didn't look at him. She reached into her suit coat, drew a customized, matte-black Glock 19 from its holster, and racked the slide with a clean, oily snap.
"You invited wolves to my son’s birthday, Osbert," Romina said, walking toward the heavy iron exit. "Pray to whatever God you have left that my men shoot straight. Because if a single bullet scratches my children, I will come back down to this cellar with a skinning knife."
