Chapter 5 - The BreachRosalie dropped her tools.
The delicate silver tweezers clattered against the velvet lining of the display case. Panic, cold and sharp, flooded her veins. She scrambled away from the worktable, her back hitting the cold stone wall of the vault as heavy footsteps pounded down the eastern corridor outside.
Gunshots.
In Philadelphia, mob wars were things you read about in the Inquirer or watched on late-night news. They weren't things that happened three doors down from where you were holding an antique sewing needle.
The heavy vault door swung wide open.
Anthony stood there, his black suit jacket gone, his white shirt stained with dark smudges of soot. He held a Sig Sauer P226 in his right hand, his eyes sharp and scanning the room.
"Ms. Mercer. Move. Now."
"What’s happening?" Rosalie’s voice came out as a breathless whisper.
"Perimeter breach. Two vehicles rammed the south security gate. They’re professional—not local street trash," Anthony said, his tone entirely devoid of panic, which somehow made it ten times more terrifying. "Mr. Serrano is in the main study. He gave strict orders that you are to be secured in the panic room beneath the library."
"I'm not leaving without my bag," Rosalie said, her stubborn streak flaring up despite the terror paralyzing her legs. "My notes—"
"Ms. Mercer!" Anthony grabbed her upper arm, not roughly, but with an irresistible, iron grip that dragged her out of the vault. "The archives don't matter if you're dead."
They sprinted down the corridor, the red emergency lights flashing rhythmically against the antique portraits lining the walls. Every shadow seemed to stretch and twist.
As they reached the grand staircase leading down to the main hall, a deafening explosion rocked the western wing. The concussive blast blew out a set of stained-glass windows, sending a rain of colored glass cascading down onto the marble floor below.
Rosalie screamed, stumbling forward. Anthony caught her by the waist, throwing his body between her and the shattered gallery.
"Keep moving!" he barked over the whine of the alarm.
They burst into the main study.
The room was empty, save for Vittorio. He stood by the massive mahogany desk, a heavy Beretta pistol in his hand, calmly loading a spare magazine. His suit jacket was off, and a dark leather holster was strapped across his chest over his white shirt.
He didn't look like a collector of ancient textiles anymore. He looked like an apex predator defending his den.
His dark eyes snapped to Rosalie the second she crossed the threshold.
"Anthony, the basement," Vittorio ordered without raising his voice.
"Boss, the western stairs are cut off. They’ve breached the kitchen," Anthony reported, his radio hissing with static. "It's Graham's security crew. Or what's left of them. They’re funded by the offshore accounts Graham didn't report."
Vittorio’s face went completely blank—the kind of cold, terrifying stillness that preceded absolute destruction.
"Graham," Vittorio murmured softly. "I told him the debt was settled through the courts. He apparently prefers a different ledger."
He looked at Rosalie, who was trembling against the mahogany desk, her hands covered in dust from the archive room.
"Are you hurt?" Vittorio asked, stepping around the desk toward her.
"No," she managed to shake her head. "No, I'm fine."
"Good." Vittorio holstered his sidearm with a smooth, practiced click and reached into his pocket, pulling out a heavy, old-fashioned brass key. He pressed it directly into Rosalie’s palm, wrapping her fingers around it. "Listen to me, Rosalie. Anthony will take you through the tunnel behind the wine cellar. There’s a vehicle waiting in the woods. Go."
"And you?" Rosalie’s fingers tightened on the cold brass. "What about you?"
May you like
Vittorio looked toward the heavy oak doors, where the sound of heavy boots was echoing closer by the second.
"I have some accounts to close," he said quietly. "Permanently."
