Chapter 7 - The Shadows in the Cellar
Clare stepped back against the central brick column, pulling a heavy, unopened bottle of 1945 Chateau Margaux from the nearest rack. Her hands were steady now, driven by the cold, fierce instinct of a mother protecting her child.
The beam of a flashlight swept across the floor, catching the white dust from the excavated bug wall.
“Over here!” one of the men yelled. “Someone was digging at the wall!”
The two men moved deeper into the cellar, their submachine guns raised. They were professionals—clean-cut, silent, moving with synchronized precision. New York men, sent by Genovese to finish what Marco had started.
“Where’s the housekeeper?” the second man muttered, kicking a wooden crate aside.
Clare waited behind the shadow of the brick pillar. As the lead man walked past her position, his attention focused on the gaping hole in the stone wall, Clare stepped out from the darkness and swung the heavy champagne bottle with all the force in her body.
The thick glass base struck the guard square on the side of his tactical helmet with a crack like a pistol shot.
The man stumbled sideways, his gun firing a short, erratic burst into the ceiling before he crashed into a rack of vintage Barolo, sending dozens of bottles smashing down onto the concrete floor in a roaring cascade of red liquid and shattered glass.
The second guard whirled around, raising his rifle.
“Drop it!” he screamed.
Clare stood her ground, holding the broken, jagged neck of the wine bottle, her apron soaked in dark red wine that looked terrifyingly like blood in the dim light.
Before the guard could pull the trigger, a blinding burst of headlights exploded through the narrow ground-level cellar windows facing the driveway.
A heavy vehicle roared across the lawn, smashing through the reinforced glass of the conservatory above with a deafening crash of metal, stone, and splintering wood.
Shouts erupted upstairs, followed immediately by the synchronized, thunderous crack of heavy automatic fire.
Dante Moretti had returned.
The guard in the cellar panicked. He glanced toward the stairs, then back at Clare. Realizing the battle above was lost, he turned to run up the rear escape shaft.
He didn't make it to the door.
Dante appeared at the top of the cellar stairs. He was wearing his dark overcoat, his face covered in rain and soot, a dark blood stain blooming across his left shoulder. In his right hand, he held a long-barreled custom pistol.
He fired twice.
The guard collapsed onto the stone steps without a sound.
Dante walked down the steps slowly, his boots crunching on shattered glass and spilled wine. He swept the room with cold, clinical precision before his eyes landed on Clare.
He stopped. His eyes scanned her from head to toe, taking in the red-stained apron and the broken bottle in her hand.
“Are you hurt?” Dante asked, his voice low, rough with exhaustion and gunfire smoke.
“It’s wine,” Clare gasped, her lungs finally taking in air. “It’s just wine.”
Dante let out a long, slow breath. The tension in his rigid shoulders dropped an inch.
“Where is Lily?”
Clare pointed toward the massive walnut wine rack at the back of the cellar.
Dante walked over, pressed his hand into a groove on the side of the wood, and pulled the manual release valve. The rack swung outward, exposing the seamless steel door of the panic room.
He tapped the override sequence into the hidden keypad.
The pneumatic seal hissed open.
Inside, Lily was curled up in the corner, her arms wrapped tight around Nero’s thick neck. The dog looked up, gave a low, happy huff, and began to lick Lily’s cheek.
“Mommy!” Lily cried, running out of the vault and throwing her arms around Clare’s waist.
Clare fell to her knees, burying her face in her daughter’s hair, shaking uncontrollably as the adrenaline finally left her system.
Dante stood over them, his dark eyes watching the mother and child. He slowly holstered his weapon, pulled his silk handkerchief from his breast pocket, and dangled it down toward Clare.
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“You have blood on your face, Clare,” he said gently. “And you broke a sixty-thousand-dollar bottle of Bordeaux.”
Clare looked up, wiping a tear from her cheek, a small, breathless laugh escaping her lips. “Put it on my tab.”
