Chapter 1 - The Heat of the Cedars and the Shadow of Betrayal
The air inside the burning garden shed tasted like ash, melted rubber, and boiling resin.
Flames licked hungrily up the eastern wall, consuming decades of old fertilizer bags, rusted hand tools, and brittle wooden crates with a sickening roar that drowned out the steady patter of the October rain outside.
Roman DeLuca, the man whose whisper could cause Wall Street bankers to liquidate their portfolios and whose mere name made hardened cartel enforcers check their rearview mirrors twice, was pinned helplessly to a cedar support post.
His muscles strained against the thick marine-grade cordage binding his wrists behind his back.
His boots were planted wide on the concrete floor, one heel keeping the brass nozzle of the garden hose wedged firmly against the floorboards to maintain a pathetic, sputtering stream of water directed at the base of the fire.
Beside him, coughing through her makeshift filter made of a yellow wool sweater, stood Nora Ellis.
Her hands were blistered, her charcoal maid’s uniform smeared with soot and grime, and her eyes wide with adrenaline as she gripped the heavy iron pruning shears she had managed to drag across the burning floor.
“Nora, listen to me,” Roman barked, his voice raw from smoke inhalation, cutting through the chaos of the blaze.
“The ropes around my wrists are soaked through, but they’re doubled over. You need to angle the blades upward, or you’ll sever my tendon.”
“I know what I’m doing,” Nora shot back, her voice shaking violently with fear and exhaustion, yet ringing with absolute determination.
“Just keep that hose steady, Roman. If the flames reach the diesel cans stored near the back wall, we’re both going up in smoke.”
Roman didn't argue.
He tightened his grip on the nozzle, feeling the scorching heat sear through his white shirt, blistering the skin across his shoulders and back.
He had survived car bombs in Palermo, ambushes in Manhattan alleyways, and corporate betrayals that spanned three continents, yet he had never felt as vulnerable as he did right now—not because of the fire, but because a three-year-old girl and her mother were standing in the middle of a trap designed exclusively for him.
“The security grid,” Roman muttered, gritting his teeth as he swept the water across a fresh tongue of fire licking toward the ceiling beams.
“It wasn't an accident. The cameras in the rear garden were looped three hours ago. The sprinkler system was manually disabled from the main basement control panel.”
Nora positioned the heavy pruning shears behind his back, her fingers brushing against his soot-covered skin.
“Which means?” she asked, straining to find the exact angle of the rope.
“Which means whoever locked that door from the outside isn't an external hit squad,” Roman replied, his eyes narrowing into cold, venomous slits.
“It’s someone inside the estate. Someone with clearance. Someone who knew my exact morning routine.”
“Hold still,” Nora whispered, positioning the steel blades against the thick, wet hemp.
She squeezed the handles with every ounce of strength in her body.
The shears crunched through the outer strands, but the core fibers held fast, fraying into stubborn threads.
“Damn it,” she cursed under her breath.
“Again,” Roman urged.
“Do it again, Nora.”
Before she could squeeze the handles for a second attempt, a tiny, high-pitched voice pierced the roar of the fire from just outside the partially open doorway.
“Mr. Roman? Mommy? Are you guys playing hide-and-seek?”
Both adults froze.
Roman’s blood ran colder than ice water.
May you like
“No,” Roman bellowed, panic cracking his voice for the first time that morning.
“Maisie, get away from the door! Go back to the fountain!”
Related Stories
