Chapter 4 - The Cellar Door
Viktor didn't hesitate.
In one fluid motion that defied his severe wound, he reached behind his back and pulled out one of the black handguns from his coat, flipping the safety off with a sharp click.
He placed a finger over his lips, looking up at the trapdoor above us.
I held my breath, every muscle in my body locked in sheer, unadulterated terror.
Above us, the footsteps moved slowly from the kitchen into my small living room.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Then, a low, metallic scraping sound.
They were opening my drawers. Searching my closet. Throwing my belongings onto the floor.
"He's not here!" a voice shouted from upstairs—one of Mickey’s men. "The place is empty!"
"Check the kitchen again!" another voice barked—Mickey’s voice. "Look for floorboards, hidden panels, anything! A guy losing that much blood didn't walk five miles out of the district!"
Heavy boots stomped back into the kitchen, stopping directly above the oak icebox that covered our trapdoor.
I looked at Viktor. Sweat was pouring down his face, his wound clearly throbbing from his sudden movement, but his hand holding the gun was rock-steady. He pointed the barrel directly at the wooden seams of the floor above us.
If they moved the icebox... Viktor was going to shoot through the wood.
And a gunfight inside a six-by-six coal cellar with two infants meant everyone in this hole was going to die.
I made a split-second decision.
I reached out, grabbed Viktor’s wrist, and pushed his gun down.
"Stay here," I mouthed silently.
Before Viktor could grab me, I pulled myself up the wooden ladder, pushed the trapdoor open just a crack—enough for my body to slip through—and slid out into the kitchen, shutting the heavy panel behind me.
I threw myself against the oak icebox, grabbing a heavy glass pitcher from the counter, and slammed it against the linoleum floor.
CRASH!
Glass shattered everywhere.
Mickey and his two thugs spun around from the hallway, their guns drawn instantly.
"What the hell?!" Mickey yelled, his weapon pointed directly at my chest.
I fell to my knees amidst the shattered glass, screaming in simulated terror, clutching my hands against my apron.
"Don't shoot! Please don't shoot!" I sobbed, tears flooding my eyes on command. "Take whatever you want! The cash register is downstairs in the diner! Take it all!"
Mickey lowered his gun slightly, his eyes narrowing into furious slits as he looked down at me crawling on the glass-covered floor.
"How did you get up here, girl?" he demanded, stepping closer, his heavy boot crunching on a shard of glass.
"I... I came up the front stairs!" I gasped, shaking violently, pointing toward the front door. "I heard noises from my apartment! I thought someone was breaking in!"
Mickey looked at his two men, then back at me. He walked over to the back door, examining the lock he had picked three minutes ago.
"You left your back door unlocked," Mickey lied smoothly, slipping his gun back into his jacket.
"I... I was scared after you came to the diner this morning!" I wept, burying my face in my hands. "Please... just leave! I don't have anything valuable! I'm broke! My diner is bankrupt!"
Mickey stood over me for three agonizing seconds. He reached down, grabbed me by the collar of my shirt, and yanked me up to my feet, bringing his scarred face inches from mine.
"If I find out you're playing me, Maya," he whispered, his hot, sour breath hitting my skin, "I won't just break your windows. I'll tie you to a chair and let my boys burn this building down while you watch."
He shoved me backward against the counter.
"Let's go," Mickey ordered his men. "The bitch is clean. Check the docks again."
The three men walked out the back door, slamming it shut behind them.
I stood in the ruined kitchen, listening to their footsteps fade down the alleyway, my heart hammering against my ribs so hard I thought my chest would burst.
Slowly, I walked over to the oak icebox and pushed it aside.
The trapdoor lifted.
Viktor emerged from the cellar, his face dark with a mixture of immense relief and terrifying rage. He looked at the shattered glass on the floor, then at my trembling hands.
"You're insane," Viktor said, his voice thick with emotion. "You could have been killed."
"They didn't find you," I whispered, wiping the tears from my cheeks. "And your children are safe."
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Viktor looked at me for a long, quiet moment. Then, for the first time since he had crawled into my diner, the feared godfather of Boston dropped his gun, walked forward, and pulled me into a tight, protective embrace.
"You saved my life twice today, Maya," Viktor whispered against my hair. "Now it's my turn to save yours."
