Chapter 8
Down in the subterranean wine cellar, twenty feet beneath the foundations of the main house, the air was damp, cold, and smelled of aging oak barrels and wet stone.
Gavin, Marjorie, and Sabrina were zip-tied to three separate iron support pillars, their hands bound behind their backs, their bare feet resting on the freezing flagstones. Gavin's face was a grotesque canvas of dried blood and swelling, his expensive suit ruined, his breath coming in shallow, shuddering wheezes.
"He's going to kill us," Sabrina wept, her head hanging low, her emerald dress smeared with grime. "You idiot, Gavin! You brought the devil into our lives! Nico Ferrante has murdered entire families for less than this!"
"Shut up, Sabrina!" Gavin hissed, pulling desperately against the heavy plastic restraints until the plastic bit deep into his wrists. "Julian Morello is on his way! I gave him the codes! The moment Morello's men breach the house, Ferrante will be dead, and we'll walk out of here with the entire northern empire!"
"You fool," Marjorie whispered from her pillar, her pearls hanging loose against her chest, her eyes wide with a sudden, horrifying realization. "Look around you, Gavin. Do you hear any alarms? Do you hear any shouting upstairs?"
Gavin froze.
The cellar was dead silent. There were no sirens, no panicked footsteps of estate staff, no sounds of an empire crumbling. There was only the low, steady hum of the backup generators running with absolute, clockwork precision.
"He knows," Marjorie breathed, her rosy cheeks draining of all color. "Nico knows they're coming. He let them in."
At that moment, the heavy iron cellar door clicked open.
Leo, Nico’s senior enforcer, stepped down the stone stairs, carrying a heavy canvas bag and a suppressed 9mm pistol in his tactical holster. He walked over to Gavin, pulled a folding wooden stool from the wall, and sat down three feet from the younger man.
Leo did not speak. He unzipped the canvas bag, reached inside, and pulled out three pairs of heavy industrial wire cutters, laying them neatly on the stone floor.
Gavin’s breath hitched in his throat. "What... what are those for?"
Leo checked his watch with cold, detached indifference.
"The Don told me to wait until the shooting starts upstairs," Leo said, his American accent flat and devoid of emotion. "He said if a single bullet hits the nursery window, I start with your toes."
Gavin let out a strangled, pathetic sob, thrashing wildly against the pillar. "No! Please! I have money! I have twenty million in a private trust in Geneva! I'll give you the account numbers! Just cut the ties and let me run!"
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Leo didn't even look at him. He drew a clean rag from his pocket and began slowly polishing the cutting edges of the steel blades.
"Save your breath, Gavin," Leo muttered. "You're going to need it to scream."
