Chapter 3 - The Service Corridor
The journey to the orchestra stage felt like crawling through a nightmare.
Grace led the way, keeping her body low, her hands scraping over broken glass and crushed flowers. The gunfire was intermittent now—methodical, terrifyingly precise. DeLuca’s men weren’t just shooting blindly; they were executing anyone who looked like Romano security.
They reached the edge of the stage. The twelve-piece orchestra had fled, leaving behind overturned cellos and shattered violins. Grace found the heavy, velvet curtain that concealed the back wall. She felt blindly in the dark until her fingers brushed the cold brass handle of the service door.
She pushed it open.
They spilled into the narrow, concrete hallway. The heavy metal door slammed shut behind them, instantly muting the screams from the ballroom. The silence in the corridor was heavy, broken only by the hum of the air conditioning unit and Isabella’s ragged weeping.
Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting long, pale shadows.
Vincent adjusted his tuxedo jacket, looking completely unbothered by the fact that he was currently being hunted by heavily armed assassins. He turned to face his new daughter-in-law.
“Alright, Isabella,” Vincent said, his voice smooth and deadly. “Talk. And remember that your life depends on the next few words that come out of your mouth.”
Isabella leaned against the concrete wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the floor. Her diamond necklace caught the harsh light. “I told you! He told me the Romano family was planning to humiliate me. To poison me during the toast to assert dominance. He said if I switched the glasses, it would prove I was smart enough to survive in this family.”
“And you believed him?” Michael asked, his voice cracking with betrayal. “You believed my father would murder you at the altar?”
“My father is a billionaire!” she cried. “He’s a legitimate businessman. I didn’t think he was capable of this... of terrorism!”
“Your father is a snake who got tired of paying tribute to my family,” Vincent corrected her coldly. “He used you to lower my guard. He knew I would never expect the bride to deliver the poison. It was a brilliant move. Almost.”
Vincent turned his gaze toward Grace, who was leaning against the wall, clutching her empty serving tray to her chest like a shield. “If it weren’t for a waitress with very observant eyes, I would be dead, and the DeLuca family would currently be taking over Los Angeles.”
Suddenly, the heavy metal door at the far end of the corridor creaked open.
Footsteps. Heavy, tactical boots clicking against the concrete.
Grace’s breath hitched in her throat. She looked around frantically. There was nowhere to hide. The hallway was completely bare, lined only with a few metal trash cans and a stack of unused banquet chairs.
Michael raised his gun, stepping in front of his father.
Two men in black tactical gear stepped into the hallway. They weren't pretending to be caterers anymore. They raised their weapons the moment they saw the group.
But they were too slow.
Before they could pull the triggers, Michael fired twice. The loud bangs echoed deafeningly in the narrow space. The first man dropped instantly, clutching his chest.
The second man, however, managed to dive behind the stack of banquet chairs. He blindly returned fire. Bullets chipped the concrete walls, sending sharp fragments of stone flying through the air. Grace covered her head, screaming as dust and debris rained down on her.
Vincent calmly pulled a small, silver revolver from an ankle holster.
“Grace,” Vincent said quietly over the sound of gunfire. “The freight elevator. How far?”
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“Fifty feet,” she whispered back, pointing down the hall past the shooter. “Just around that corner.”
“Good.” Vincent looked at his son. “Michael, suppress him. Isabella, try not to die. Grace, stay behind me.”
