Chapter 10
Sibella’s eyes widened in horror. "He... he asked where you kept your most valuable assets. I told him about the vault beneath the wine cellar. I thought he meant money, Alban! I swear!"
Alban’s heart hammered a violent, cold rhythm against his ribs. The panic room beneath the wine cellar. The exact place he had just sent Nerelle and the doctor to hide. The Valentis didn't want his money. They wanted leverage. They wanted hostages to force him to surrender his empire.
Alban turned his back on Sibella without another word. He sprinted out of the holding room, Marcus hot on his heels.
"They're heading for the wine cellar!" Alban yelled into his radio. "All available units in the basement, converge on the vault!"
They raced down the subterranean corridors, the red emergency lights flashing rhythmically, casting frantic, elongated shadows against the stone walls. The sound of heavy boot steps and muffled shouts echoed from the tunnels ahead.
As they rounded the corner into the expansive, climate-controlled wine cellar, Alban saw them.
Six Valenti gunmen, led by a man in a tailored suit—Thomas Bellamy. They were gathered around the heavy steel blast door of the panic room, attaching a block of C4 explosive to the electronic locking mechanism.
"Set the charge!" Thomas screamed, his fair face flushed with adrenaline and greed. "Blow the door before Rookmere gets down here!"
"You're too late, Thomas," Alban’s deep, raspy voice echoed through the cavernous cellar.
Thomas and his men spun around, raising their weapons.
Alban didn't hesitate. He raised his shotgun and fired. The roar of the blast shattered dozens of vintage wine bottles in the racks around them, showering the floor with dark red liquid that looked horrifyingly like blood under the emergency lights.
Two of the gunmen went down instantly. Marcus opened fire from Alban's flank, dropping two more.
Thomas ducked behind a heavy oak wine barrel, pulling a handgun from his jacket. "Kill him! Kill him now!" he shrieked to his remaining men.
A fierce, chaotic firefight erupted in the cellar. Wood splintered, glass shattered, and the smell of gunpowder and aged wine filled the air. Alban moved with terrifying, practiced efficiency, slipping between the racks, using the shadows and his intimate knowledge of the room to outmaneuver the intruders.
He flanked the remaining gunmen, taking them down with cold, measured shots.
Suddenly, Thomas broke from his cover, sprinting desperately toward the staircase leading back up to the main house. He realized the battle was lost, abandoning his men to save his own life.
Alban dropped his empty shotgun. He drew a sleek, customized pistol from his shoulder holster and stepped out into the main aisle. He took aim with terrifying, unblinking focus.
Bang.
The single shot echoed through the cellar.
Thomas cried out, his leg buckling out from under him as the bullet shattered his kneecap. He collapsed onto the cold stone floor, dropping his weapon and screaming in agony.
Alban walked slowly toward the wounded man, his leather shoes splashing through the spilled wine. He stood over Thomas, the barrel of his pistol pointed directly at the man's chest.
"You came into my house," Alban whispered, his voice a low, lethal vibration. "You threatened my people. You tried to break my vault."
"Alban... please," Thomas begged, clutching his bleeding knee, his arrogant facade completely destroyed. "Sibella... she's my sister. We're family. We can make a deal!"
Alban stared down at him, his cold, sharp eyes devoid of any mercy.
"There are no deals for dead men," Alban said softly.
Before Alban could pull the trigger, the heavy steel blast door of the panic room behind them hissed open with a hydraulic groan.
Alban spun around, raising his weapon.
Standing in the doorway, bathed in the soft, warm light of the vault interior, was Nerelle. She was pale, still clutching Alban's suit jacket around her shoulders, but her eyes were wide and fixed on something behind Alban.
"Mr. Rookmere..." Nerelle whispered, her voice trembling. "Look out!"
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Alban turned just in time to see a shadow detach itself from the darkest corner of the wine cellar. A man he hadn't seen, a man dressed in head-to-toe black tactical gear, raised a suppressed rifle, aiming it directly at Alban’s back.
The laser sight painted a bright green dot directly over Alban's heart.
