Chapter 5 - War in the Dining HallThe service shaft was dark, damp, and smelled of old dust and copper wiring. We climbed upward in silence, our hands scraping against rough concrete until my fingers throbbed. Above us, the muffled sounds of shouting, breaking glass, and heavy footsteps vibrated through the floorboards.
The board meeting had begun.
Roman pushed open a spring-loaded vent panel at the top of the shaft, slipping out into the shadows of the estate’s grand butler’s pantry like a ghost. I followed closely behind, crouching behind a massive mahogany service cart loaded with crystal wine glasses.
Through the swinging doors of the pantry, the main dining hall was a scene of utter chaos.
Twenty men—executive board members, regional capos, and guards loyal to Marcus and Vincent Costa—sat around the long walnut table. At the head sat Vincent Costa, a silver-haired wolf of a man wearing a smug, triumphant smile, flanked by Marcus Archer, who held a submachine gun across his lap.
"Gentlemen," Vincent announced, his voice carrying over the murmurs of the terrified board members. "Roman is currently detained. As the senior surviving member of the Costa family, I am officially taking control of the shipping lanes and dissolving the oversight committee."
"You're taking control of nothing, Vincent."
The voice cut through the hall like a gunshot.
Every head snapped toward the double doors.
Roman stepped out of the shadows of the pantry corridor into the bright light of the crystal chandelier, his tall frame radiating absolute, untouchable authority. I stepped out right beside him, my chin held high, my fear burned away by a sudden, fierce defiance.
Vincent’s smug smile vanished, replaced by sheer, pale terror. "Roman! How—how did you get out of the vault?"
"Did you really think a cheap digital override could trap me in my own house, Uncle?" Roman walked slowly down the center of the room, his hand resting casually near his holster.
Marcus Archer sprang to his feet, leveling his weapon straight at Roman’s chest. "Don't move, Roman! Drop the gun or I'll turn you both into mince meat right here!"
Before Marcus’s finger could squeeze the trigger, the side doors of the dining hall burst open.
A dozen armed men swarmed the room—not Vincent’s guards, but the loyal Costa enforcers led by Finn Mercer, who had a bloody lip and a tactical vest thrown over his tattered gray t-shirt.
"Drop the gun, Marcus," Finn ordered, raising an assault rifle and aiming it squarely at the chief of security’s head. "The federal marshals are already securing the perimeter gates. The game is over."
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Marcus looked around the room, realizing he was entirely surrounded. With a curse, he dropped his weapon and raised his hands, slamming back against the wall.
Vincent Costa slumped back into his chair, trembling violently as Roman’s men converged on him, slapping heavy steel zip-ties around his wrists.
