The Mafia Boss Tore the Curvy Maid's Worn Coat Apart—Then Ordered, Bring the Best Tailor Now

"Victor!" Gideon roared, rushing up the stone stairs and throwing his massive shoulder against the reinforced iron door.

BOOM!

The door didn't even budge. It was a Cold War-era panic door built into the bedrock foundation of the estate, designed to withstand military-grade explosives.

"Save your energy, Gideon," Victor’s muffled laugh echoed through the iron grating above. "That door is four inches of solid iron. No one can hear your screams down there. The sub-basement is completely soundproof."

I rushed up the stairs, standing beside Gideon, my heart pounding wildly against my ribs. "How are you here, Victor?! Lucian’s men seized you!"

"Lucian’s men are loyal to money, my dear Alora," Victor sneered through the grate. "Julian Vance paid three of your precious guards fifty thousand dollars each to turn a blind eye while I escaped from the cellar holding cell tonight. Julian knew you were auditing the old Vance files. He sent me back to clean up the mess."

I squeezed my fists tight. "The coat is gone, Victor! Lucian burned it two weeks ago!"

"Did he?" Victor chuckled darkly. "Lucian ordered it burned, yes. But I was the one who controlled the estate waste management. I didn't burn that coat, Alora. I kept it locked in my private storage vault in the boathouse. I was waiting for the right moment to sell the covenant back to Julian Vance for ten million dollars."

Light scraped across the iron grate above as a faint smell of smoke began to drift down the stairwell.

My eyes widened in terror. "Victor... what are you doing?"

"Closing the ledger," Victor said coldly. "Julian Vance doesn't want any loose ends. A small electrical fire in the basement archive will explain the tragic death of the new Comptroller and the Chief of Security. By the time Lucian returns from his meeting in the city, there will be nothing left down here but ashes."

"Victor! Stop!" I screamed, slamming my hands against the cold iron.

The sound of liquid sloshing echoed from above—gasoline being poured along the wooden floorboards outside the door. Then, a sharp CLICK of a lighter.

WHOOSH!

A wave of intense heat blasted through the iron grate as bright orange flames erupted on the other side of the door. Black, thick, toxic smoke immediately began to pour through the gaps in the frame, filling the narrow stone shaft with suffocating fumes.

"Goodbye, Miss Quinn," Victor’s voice faded away as his footsteps hurried across the floor above. "You should have stayed invisible."

"Alora! Down!" Gideon shouted, grabbing my arm and pulling me back down the stairs away from the rising cloud of black smoke.

We tumbled back into the cold stone room of the sub-basement. The air was rapidly disappearing, replaced by dense, blinding smoke that burned my eyes and made my lungs scream for oxygen.

"Is there another exit?!" I choked out, coughing violently, pressing my wool shawl over my nose and mouth.

"No!" Gideon rasped, his eyes watering in the dim light of his phone screen. "This is a dead end! The old drainage tunnel at the back was sealed with concrete twenty years ago!"

I looked around the dark, stone room. The flames above were roaring louder, heating the iron door until it began to glow faint red in the darkness. The temperature in the stairwell was soaring rapidly. In less than ten minutes, the smoke would suffocate us, or the heat would roast us alive.

I am not dying down here, I swore fiercely to myself, my mind working at lightning speed despite the panic. I fought through eleven months of hell in this house. I am not letting a coward like Victor Hale win!

I grabbed Gideon’s arm. "The concrete seal on the drainage tunnel! How thick is it?"

"It’s old cinderblock!" Gideon coughed out. "About six inches!"

"You have your sidearm!" I shouted over the roar of the fire. "Shoot the mortar joints! Break the structural integrity!"

Gideon’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. He drew his heavy iron tactical pistol from his shoulder holster, scrambling over the dusty crates toward the back wall of the archive. He shone his phone light on the dark grey cinderblocks blocking the old arched drainage tunnel.

"Stand back!" Gideon roared.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

The deafening gunshots shattered the enclosed space, ear-splitting sound waves bouncing off the granite walls. Sparks flew as heavy lead rounds slammed directly into the crumbling, fifty-year-old mortar joints between the cinderblocks.

Cracks spiderwebbed across the wall.

Gideon dropped his empty pistol, backed up three steps, and threw his massive, six-foot-four frame with all his strength against the weakened blocks.

CRASH!

The cinderblock wall collapsed inward, opening a dark, muddy hole leading into the cold underground drainage pipe that ran beneath the estate grounds toward the river.

Fresh, cool, damp air rushed through the hole, blowing away the thick black smoke.

"Go! Alora, go!" Gideon urged, hoisting me through the opening first before crawling in behind me.

We crawled through the narrow, dark stone pipe, cold mud soaking through my silk clothes, until we burst out into the fresh, rainy night air near the boathouse at the edge of the estate’s private lake.

I collapsed onto the wet grass, gasping for sweet, cold air, my chest heaving, my clothes covered in mud and soot.

Fifty yards away, the main estate mansion was quiet, but near the private docks, a single light burned inside the wooden boathouse.

I sat up, wiping the mud from my face, my eyes locking onto that boathouse light.

"Gideon," I rasped, standing up on shaky, determined legs.

"Miss Quinn, you're injured—we need to get to safety—"

"Victor said the coat is inside his storage vault in the boathouse," I said, my voice dropping into a razor-sharp register of pure steel. "He thinks we're dying in that fire. He’s retrieving the covenant right now."