Chapter 8 - the bunker beneath the roses
The formal gardens of the Vale Estate were quiet beneath the midnight moon. Silver light washed over pristine stone fountains, manicured hedges, and rows of blooming white roses.
Roman walked down the central gravel path, flanked by Viktor and four heavily armed security soldiers. Dressed in a dark tactical jacket, dark trousers, and leather boots, Roman looked like a shadow moving through his own domain.
They reached the eastern terrace, where a thick wall of climbing ivy covered an old stone archway.
Using heavy iron shears, Viktor cut away the tangled vines, revealing a massive iron door embedded in the stone wall, fitted with a heavy brass wheel lock—exactly as four-year-old Sadie had drawn with her green crayon.
"Check for tripwires," Roman ordered softly.
Viktor swept the frame with a military-grade scanner. "Clear, Boss."
Roman stepped forward, grabbing the heavy brass wheel with both hands. With a grunt of dark strength, he turned the rusted mechanism three times counterclockwise.
CLANG!
The iron seal broke with a heavy burst of dust and cold air.
The heavy door swung open, revealing a concrete staircase descending into pitch darkness.
Roman clicked on his tactical light, leading his men down the concrete steps. The air smelled of cold grease, old paper, and gunpowder.
At the bottom of the stairs lay a sprawling subterranean chamber. Stacked along the walls were fifty heavy wooden crates stamped with the emblem of the Vance Syndicate in Chicago—containing illegal weaponry, untraceable bearer bonds, and high-grade surveillance equipment pointed directly at the Vale mansion above.
"My God," Viktor whispered, sweeping his light across the crates. "Graham turned our own garden into a foreign staging ground."
Roman walked over to a metal desk near the center of the bunker. Resting on top of a radio unit was a encrypted satellite phone.
Suddenly, the satellite phone lit up with an incoming call. The caller ID displayed a single name: JULIAN VANCE.
Roman reached out, picking up the satellite phone. He slid the receiver to his ear, but didn't speak a word.
"Graham," Julian Vance's rasping, elderly voice echoed through the line from Chicago. "Is the contract signed? Is Roman Vale out of the picture yet?"
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Roman took a slow, deep breath, his dark eyes burning with absolute, lethal dominance.
"Graham isn't available, Julian," Roman spoke into the receiver, his deep voice cutting through the speaker like a butcher's blade. "This is Roman Vale. And you have five minutes to leave state lines before I tear your empire to ashes."
