Chapter 8 - THE WINE CELLAR
The police were easily bribed away at the gates—a standard delay tactic by Antonio’s men. But the clock was ticking.
Antonio, Dante, and I raced back to Bellarosa. The morning sun was fully up, casting harsh light onto the empty dining room where this nightmare had begun just twelve hours ago.
“The old wine cellar was bricked up in the eighties,” Dante said, holding his bandaged shoulder as we rushed into the kitchen. “Where the hell is the entrance?”
“My father didn’t trust banks,” Antonio said, grabbing a crowbar from the utility closet. “He always said the foundation of his empire was the food. The ovens.”
We moved to the massive brick pizza oven in the back of the kitchen. It hadn’t been used in years, replaced by modern gas ranges. Antonio swung the crowbar, smashing the old bricks. Dust and ash poured out.
Behind the facade of the oven was a heavy iron door.
Dante slid the brass key into the lock. It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.
We pulled the door open and descended a narrow, spiraling stone staircase. The air grew frigid, smelling of damp earth and ancient corks. At the bottom was a small, brick-lined room filled with empty wine racks. In the center of the floor sat a massive floor safe.
“The combination,” Dante groaned. “We don’t have it.”
Antonio knelt by the dial. “Mother said my father left a clue the night he died. The watch.”
I pulled the silver pocket watch from my apron. Ask Sophie.
“My grandmother’s name,” I said. “But why would that be the combination?”
“Not her name,” Antonio said, thinking rapidly. “Numbers. When did she leave the family?”
“October 14th, 1986,” I said immediately. My grandmother always treated that day like a second birthday.
Antonio spun the dial. 10 - 14 - 86.
Click.
The heavy steel door swung upward. Inside, resting on a bed of velvet, was a thick leather-bound book. The ledger.
Antonio pulled it out and flipped through the pages. His eyes widened. “He documented everything. Every penny Vincenzo stole from the bosses. Every hit he ordered without permission. This is a death sentence for Vincenzo from the Commission.”
“We have him,” Dante grinned through his pain.
Suddenly, the heavy iron door at the top of the stairs slammed shut. The sound echoed like a gunshot.
“Hey!” Antonio yelled, running up the stairs and slamming his fists against the iron. The deadbolt had been thrown from the outside.
We were trapped.
A hissing sound caught my attention. I looked toward the ceiling of the cellar. Through the old ventilation grating, a thick, sweet-smelling white gas began to pour into the room.
“Carbon monoxide,” I gasped, recognizing the setup from the restaurant's old heating system. “Someone routed the exhaust down here.”
“Vincenzo never planned to make a trade,” Dante coughed, covering his mouth with his jacket. “He sent us down here to die.”
Antonio threw his shoulder against the iron door. It didn’t budge. The gas was filling the room rapidly. My vision began to blur, and my lungs burned.
I fell to my knees, clutching the pocket watch. Was this how it ended? Dying in the dark, just like my grandfather had?
May you like
“Look out!” Antonio yelled.
He didn’t have a bomb. He didn’t have a key. But he had his father’s handgun. He pressed the barrel directly against the ancient, rusted hinges of the iron door and pulled the trigger.
