Chapter 7 – THE GRENADE IN THE CELLAR

The metallic ping of the grenade pin hitting the stone floor felt louder than the gunshot.

“Run!” Roman roared.

Victor dropped the live grenade onto the floor between us, laughing hysterically as he clutched his shattered knee.

We had five seconds.

I didn’t think. I scrambled backward, grabbing Leo and shoving him behind the thickest oak wine barrel in the corner. Isabella threw herself over him, shielding him with her body.

But Roman didn’t run for cover.

Bleeding heavily from his shoulder and ribs, Roman pushed himself off the floor. He lunged toward the live explosive.

“Roman, no!” I screamed.

He scooped the grenade off the floor. Three feet away was the massive, walk-in humidor where Isabella’s late husband had stored his vintage cigars. It was lined with thick, reinforced steel plating to maintain temperature.

Roman threw the grenade inside the humidor and slammed the heavy steel door shut, throwing his entire body weight against it.

One second passed. Two.

The explosion shook the very foundation of the estate.

The steel door bulged outward with terrifying force, but the reinforced hinges held. Heat and smoke hissed out from the seams, but the lethal shrapnel and fire were contained inside the vault.

Roman was thrown backward by the shockwave, landing hard on the wet stone floor.

The cellar fell eerily silent, save for the crackling of the ruined humidor and Victor’s moans of pain.

I scrambled out from behind the barrel, my heart in my throat. “Roman!”

I dropped to my knees beside him. His suit was ruined, his face pale, but his gray eyes slowly opened. He let out a ragged, painful laugh.

“That was close,” he wheezed.

Suddenly, heavy boots pounded down the stairwell. Flashlights cut through the smoke.

“Boss! Boss, are you down here?”

It was Marcus. He and a dozen heavily armed men flooded the cellar.

“Secure Victor,” Roman ordered weakly.

Marcus took one look at Victor writhing on the floor and kicked the man brutally in the ribs before zip-tying his hands behind his back.

“The perimeter is secure, Roman,” Marcus reported. “The loyalists took back the gates. Victor’s men surrendered when they heard the explosion.”

Roman nodded slowly, letting his head fall back against the stone floor. He looked at me, then at Leo, who was peeking out from behind Isabella.

“What time is it?” Roman asked.

Marcus checked his watch. “It’s 12:05 AM.”

Roman smiled, a genuine, relieved smile that reached his eyes for the first time since I met him.

He looked at my son.

“Happy Birthday, Leo,” Roman whispered.

The trust had matured. The money was permanently locked in Leo’s name. Victor had lost everything.

Isabella stood up, her silk robe ruined, her silver hair in disarray, but she looked more majestic than ever. She walked over to Victor, looking down at the son who had betrayed her family.

“Take him to the Commission,” Isabella ordered Marcus, her voice cold as ice. “Tell them he murdered his brother. They will handle his punishment.”

Marcus hauled Victor to his feet and dragged him out of the cellar.

I helped Roman sit up. He was heavy, but I wrapped his good arm around my shoulder, supporting his weight.

We slowly walked up the stairs, emerging from the dark basement into the shattered, but safe, main floor of the mansion.

The nightmare was over. We had survived.

But as the adrenaline began to fade, a new fear crept into my chest. Leo was now the heir to a massive mafia fortune. Roman had saved us, but he was still a syndicate boss.

What kind of life was waiting for us now?

As if reading my mind, Isabella walked over to me in the foyer. She reached out and gently took my bloodstained work apron from my hands.

“You fought for my family tonight, Megan,” Isabella said softly. “Now, it’s time for us to fight for yours.”

She handed the apron to a passing guard. “Burn that. She won’t ever need it again.”

Then, Isabella reached into her pocket and pulled out a small, velvet box.

“Roman asked me to hold onto this for him,” Isabella said, opening the lid.

Inside wasn’t a weapon, or a key to a vault.

It was a piece of paper. A deed.

I looked closer, reading the elegant print at the top.

Laura’s Restaurant.

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