Chapter 9 - The Subterranean Retreat
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They sprinted down the narrow service stairwell toward the cellar pantry where Wren had spent her morning scrubbing silver.
The air grew cold and heavy with the smell of damp stone, earth, and aged wine.
Damian kicked open the heavy iron door at the back of the pantry, revealing a long, unlit brick tunnel that stretched deep beneath the Long Island estate. He reached for the light switch on the wall, but Wren grabbed his wrist.
"No lights," she commanded softly. "They'll have thermal scopes."
She reached into her dress pocket and pulled out a small tactical penlight, clicking it onto a dim red beam that illuminated only three feet in front of them.
They moved quickly through the dark, arched tunnels. The distant sound of gunfire above grew muffled, replaced by the rhythmic dripping of water against ancient stone.
Suddenly, Wren stopped. She held up her hand, signaling for absolute silence.
Damian paused beside her, his weapon raised, his eyes scanning the darkness ahead.
"What is it?" he whispered.
"Footsteps," Wren breathed, leaning her ear against the damp brick wall. "Three men. Moving fast from the boathouse entrance. They're cutting off the exit."
"Moretti's team?"
"No," Wren said, her voice dropping into a deadly whisper as she caught the faint, metallic scent of a specific oil used on European firearms. "Not Moretti. That's military-grade suppressor oil. Sicilian manufacture."
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Damian turned his head toward her, his jaw tightening. "The Donati?"
"They aren't here for you, Damian," Wren said, her dark eyes reflecting the dim red light. "They're here for me. Someone at this party recognized my face."
