Chapter 3 - The Siege of Market Street
The gunfire ripped through the front display cases, shattering framed oil paintings, antique porcelain palettes, and century-old wooden easels into thousands of flying splinters.
Claire covered her ears, crouching low against the floorboards as tear gas burned her nose and throat. "Who is that?!" she coughed out, tears streaming down her face.
"Dominic’s clean-up crew!" Leo yelled over the deafening noise. He reached inside his coat, pulled out a sleek silver semi-automatic pistol, and flicked off the safety with a practiced flick of his thumb. "They knew Vincent left his personal security behind to monitor the building. They took out Vincent’s guys in the alley five minutes ago!"
"In my shop?!" Claire screamed, rage suddenly surging past her terror. "This building has stood since 1790!"
"It won't stand until 1791 if we stay here!" Leo grabbed a heavy canvas drop cloth from a nearby stool, wrapped it around his arm, and fired three precise shots through the thick cloud of tear gas toward the shattered front window.
A gunman in a dark tactical jacket groaned and fell backward through the broken glass frame onto the sidewalk outside.
"To the basement!" Claire shouted, grabbing the restoration scalpel and her grandfather’s envelope from the desk. "There’s a coal chute that leads to the alley behind the bakery!"
They scrambled across the debris-strewn floor toward the heavy oak door leading down to the cellar. Bullets slammed into the plaster walls above their heads, sending clouds of white dust raining down on them.
Just as Leo pushed Claire through the cellar door and slammed it shut, a heavy, armored SUV pulled up onto the sidewalk outside, its high beams flashing bright yellow through the tear gas.
The sound of heavy leather boots crunched over the broken glass in the gallery above.
"Find the girl!" a harsh, raspy voice ordered from the main floor. "Dominic wants the canvas destroyed! Burn the whole damn building!"
"Down! Go!" Leo ordered, locking the heavy brass deadbolt on the cellar door.
Claire bounded down the narrow wooden stairs into the pitch-black basement, smelling old dirt, damp coal, and turpentine. She reached for the wall switch, flipping on the overhead string lights.
The basement was a labyrinth of stacked wooden crates, canvas stretchers, and old gilded frames. In the far corner stood an iron door embedded directly into the brick foundation—the old coal chute.
"It’s jammed!" Claire gasped, tugging at the rusted iron handle of the coal chute. "It hasn't been opened in thirty years!"
Above them, heavy thuds vibrated through the floorboards as the gunmen kicked repeatedly at the oak cellar door. The wood began to splinter with loud, cracking sounds.
"Leo!" Claire panicked.
"Step back!" Leo raised his pistol, aiming at the rusted iron latch of the coal chute.
Before he could pull the trigger, the heavy double doors at the top of the cellar stairs didn't just open—they were blown off their hinges with a violent BANG.
A massive figure in a ruined, paint-stained white Italian shirt stepped through the dust and splintered wood at the top of the stairs.
Vincent DeLuca.
He wasn't wearing his jacket anymore. His $12,000 shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, stained with dark blue paint across the chest, and splashed with blood along his left forearm. In his right hand, he held a massive black custom handgun. Behind him stood two of his personal security men, holding tactical rifles pointed up toward the ruined gallery.
Vincent looked down into the dark basement, his dark eyes scanning the room until they locked onto Claire.
"You really don't know how to take advice, do you, Whitmore?" Vincent said, his voice terrifyingly calm despite the carnage above. "I told you to stay put until tomorrow."
Leo instantly raised his weapon, aiming directly at Vincent’s chest. "Step back, DeLuca."
Vincent didn't even blink at the gun pointed at his heart. He slowly descended the creaking wooden stairs, one step at a time, his boots hitting the concrete floor with heavy, deliberate weight.
"Leo Vance," Vincent said smoothly, recognizing the older man. "My uncle’s former chief of security. I thought you died in Miami ten years ago."
"I was waiting for you to grow enough of a spine to stand up to Dominic," Leo retorted, keeping his front sight fixed on Vincent's forehead. "Your uncle just sent six hitmen to murder this girl and burn her studio to the ground. Is that how DeLuca Dominion does business now?"
Vincent stopped five feet away. He looked at Claire, taking in her dust-covered face, her torn apron, and the fierce, defiant glare in her eyes.
"My uncle acted without my authority," Vincent said, his jaw tightening into a razor-sharp line. "He thought I came here today to buy a building. He didn't realize I came here because I found my mother's handwriting on an old shipping manifest in his office last night."
Vincent reached into his back pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, tossing it onto a nearby wooden crate.
"Dominic tried to have me intercepted on the Expressway twenty minutes ago," Vincent continued, his voice dropping into a register that made the concrete floor feel cold. "He realized I knew what was in that painting."
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Claire looked at Vincent. "You knew about the key?"
"I knew my mother didn't die in a car crash," Vincent whispered, his eyes burning with an intense, raw emotion that shattered his cold exterior. "And I know that whatever is hidden at those coordinates... is the reason she never came back for me."
