Chapter 8 - Shattered Glass in the Wine Cellar
We couldn't take the sedan out the main security gate; Marcus would have the automated barriers locked tight and the sniper nests manned by dawn. Instead, I killed the engine, slipped the key ring into my pocket, and led the girls through the maintenance tunnel that branched off toward the estate's old wine cellar. It was a labyrinth of stone-vaulted ceilings and shadowed alcoves, built a century before Dante’s family turned the property into a fortress of wealth and blood.
The air here was cool and heavy with the scent of aged oak and fermenting grapes. I guided the twins behind a massive, floor-to-ceiling rack of vintage Bordeaux bottles, pressing them flat against the damp stone wall. "Stay right here," I murmured, my voice barely audible over the dripping of an overhead condensation pipe. "Do not move, no matter what you hear. I'll be right back."
I crept back toward the heavy iron gate that connected the wine cellar to the main basement stairs. The dim amber bulbs hanging from the low ceiling cast long, dancing shadows across the concrete floor. Suddenly, the silence was shattered by an explosion of shattering glass and splintering wood as the basement door at the top of the stone stairs was violently kicked open.
Heavy boots crunched down the steps, coming fast and purposeful. I flattened myself against the dark brickwork of an empty wine bin, holding my breath as a tall figure silhouette appeared in the stairwell. It wasn't Dante. The broad shoulders and military-style tactical vest belonged to one of Marcus's hired clean-up crew. He held a suppressed submachine gun raised at shoulder level, sweeping the laser sight back and forth across the rows of wine racks.
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"I know you're down here, housekeeper," a raspy voice called out into the echoing vault, thick with malice. "Come out with the kids, and make it easy on yourselves. Boss wants them alive, but he didn't say a damn thing about you."
My hand instinctively dropped to my side, my fingers closing around a heavy iron corkscrew I had grabbed from the tasting table. My heart drummed a frantic rhythm against my ribs, but the paralyzing fear I had felt upstairs began to curdle into a cold, hard fury. They had hunted us through our own home, terrorized two motherless little girls, and destroyed everything Dante had fought to protect. I tightened my grip on the iron tool, waiting in the absolute dark for him to take one more step past the shadow of the oak barrels.
