Chapter 6 - THE GLASS SHARDS
The sound of shattering glass tore through the dining room like a bomb.
Before I could scream, Roman lunged across the table, his heavy arm wrapping around my waist and dragging me violently to the floor beneath the heavy mahogany bench.
“Stay down!” he roared.
Gunfire crackled from the street outside—short, suppressed pops that punched through the remaining restaurant windows and chewed up the imported wallpaper above our heads.
Beatatrice was already on the floor, pulled safely behind a concrete structural pillar by one of Roman’s massive bodyguards.
“Vance’s men,” the bodyguard shouted over the din, drawing his pistol and returning fire through the shattered front window. “They’re hitting the front and the alley!”
I pressed my face against the dusty carpet, my hands over my head, the smell of cordite and broken glass stinging my nose. This wasn’t a mob movie anymore. This was real, and it was happening because my father had left a pocket watch in my drawer.
Roman hovered directly over me, his broad body shielding me completely from the line of fire. He didn't look panicked; his jaw was set like granite, his dark eyes scanning every angle of the room.
“Are you hit?” he asked, his voice harsh against my ear.
“No,” I gasped, trembling from head to toe. “No, I’m okay.”
“Good.” Roman reached inside his suit jacket, pulled out a heavy black firearm I hadn't noticed he carried, and checked the magazine with one fluid motion. “Because we are leaving through the kitchen walk-in freezer.”
“The freezer?” I choked out. “There’s no exit back there!”
“There is now,” Roman said grimly.
The front gunfire stopped as abruptly as it had started, replaced by the heavy crunch of boots stepping over broken glass in the main foyer.
“Roman Moretti!” Vance’s amplified voice echoed from the lobby through a megaphone. “Surrender the girl and the watch, and nobody else bleeds tonight!”
Roman didn’t answer. He grabbed my wrist, pulling me up from the floor, and signaled to his men.
“Move!”
We scrambled through the swinging kitchen doors just as the front archway filled with federal agents in tactical gear. Chef Thomas and the dishwashers were already cowering behind the stainless-steel prep tables, terrified out of their minds.
Roman didn't head for the back alley exit. He marched straight toward the massive walk-in freezer in the corner of the kitchen.
He kicked the heavy insulated door twice with the heel of his Italian leather shoe.
With a loud metallic pop, the entire back panel of the freezer—disguised behind metal shelving units loaded with frozen turkeys—swung inward, revealing a dark, concrete-lined utility tunnel smelling of damp earth and old brick.
“In,” Roman ordered, pushing Beatatrice through first, then grabbing my arm and pulling me inside before the federal agents could breach the kitchen doors.
As the heavy freezer panel clicked shut behind us, plunging the tunnel into pitch blackness, Roman switched on a tactical flashlight.
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The beam cut through the damp air, illuminating the concrete walls—and right beside the door, carved into the fresh mortar, was a set of initials and a date: A.H. & D.R. 1992.
My father’s initials. And Roman’s father’s initials.
