Chapter 6 - The Rusted Oven Door
The piercing shriek of the fire alarms echoed through the mansion as Vincent pulled me down the hallway.
“Vincent, wait!” Arthur yelled, hobbling after us as fast as his seventy-year-old legs could carry him.
I scooped Leo into my arms, holding him tight against my chest as we burst through the back doors into the cold night air. The rain had started to fall, slicking the cobblestone driveway.
“Why are we going to the restaurant?” I yelled over the rain and the alarms. “Marcus said the deed is at the bank!”
Vincent unlocked his sleek black SUV and threw the passenger door open for me.
“Marcus is lying!” Vincent shouted, jumping into the driver’s seat as Arthur scrambled into the back with me and Leo.
Vincent slammed the car into gear, the tires spinning on the wet pavement before catching traction and tearing out of the estate gates.
“My mother didn’t trust banks,” Vincent explained, his eyes fixed on the dark road ahead. “She grew up during the Depression. If she hid the original, notarized deed transferring ownership to your mother, she hid it somewhere she could keep an eye on it.”
“The restaurant,” Arthur breathed from the back seat, realization dawning on his weathered face.
“Exactly,” Vincent said, gripping the steering wheel. “Marcus flashed that safety deposit key to stall us. He wants us running to a bank downtown that’s been closed for hours, wasting time until midnight.”
I looked at the digital clock on the dashboard.
11:22 PM.
Thirty-eight minutes.
“If the deed isn't at the bank, where is it?” I asked, panic making my voice tremble.
Arthur leaned forward, placing a steady hand on my shoulder.
“The old brick oven,” Arthur said softly.
Vincent met Arthur’s eyes in the rearview mirror.
“The one we sealed up fifteen years ago during the remodel,” Vincent confirmed. “My mother insisted we leave the hollow cavity behind it intact. I always thought it was structural. She was building a vault.”
We tore through the city streets, running three red lights. The neon signs of downtown blurred past us in the rain.
“Why would she leave it to my mother?” I asked, the reality of the night still crashing over me in waves. “Your mother owned the restaurant. Why give it to her bookkeeper?”
Vincent’s jaw tightened.
“Because my mother knew what Marcus Vance had done,” Vincent said, his voice thick with regret. “She found out Marcus framed Margaret for the embezzlement. But Marcus threatened to destroy my career if she went to the police. I was just starting out. She chose to protect my future over your mother’s reputation.”
Tears pricked my eyes. My mother had been collateral damage to protect a culinary empire.
“But the guilt ate her alive,” Vincent continued softly. “Before she died, she told me she had set a trap to make things right. I didn’t understand what she meant until tonight.”
He turned the steering wheel sharply, throwing the SUV into the narrow alleyway behind Hale’s Original, the flagship restaurant that had started it all.
Vincent slammed on the brakes, the car skidding to a halt near the loading dock.
11:35 PM.
Twenty-five minutes.
We spilled out of the car. Vincent grabbed a heavy crowbar from his trunk.
“Stay close to me,” Vincent ordered, unlocking the heavy steel back door of the kitchen.
The restaurant was dark, closed for a private renovation. The air inside smelled of stale flour, old wood, and decades of roasted garlic.
Vincent clicked on a heavy flashlight, the beam cutting through the darkness, illuminating the massive, stainless-steel industrial kitchen.
In the far corner, covered in plastic tarp for the remodel, sat the original brick pizza oven. It was massive, built directly into the load-bearing wall of the building.
Vincent marched over to it and ripped the plastic tarp away.
“The cavity is behind the primary ash trap,” Arthur said, stepping up beside him. “We need to pry off the cast-iron door.”
Vincent jammed the edge of the crowbar under the rusted lip of the heavy iron door at the base of the oven. He strained, the muscles in his arms flexing, but the metal had been sealed with heat and time for fifteen years.
It didn’t budge.
“Help me,” Vincent grunted.
Arthur grabbed the crowbar with him. I set Leo down, telling him to stand back, and I grabbed the cold metal too.
“On three,” Vincent commanded. “One. Two. Three!”
We pulled with everything we had.
With a deafening, metallic CRACK, the rusted iron door tore free from the brick, crashing heavily onto the kitchen floor.
A cloud of thirty-year-old soot and ash plumed into the air, making us cough.
Vincent aimed the flashlight into the dark, hollow cavity behind the oven.
Resting in the center of the ash was a small, heavy steel lockbox.
“She really did it,” Vincent whispered, reaching his arm deep into the soot and pulling the box out.
He set it on the stainless-steel prep counter.
It was locked with a heavy brass padlock.
“We don’t have the key,” I panicked, looking at the clock on the kitchen wall.
11:42 PM.
Eighteen minutes.
“Stand back,” Vincent ordered.
He raised the heavy crowbar and brought it crashing down onto the brass padlock. The metal sparked, but the lock held.
He hit it again. And again. The sound of metal striking metal echoed like gunshots in the empty kitchen.
On the fourth strike, the padlock shattered, dropping to the floor.
Vincent threw the lid of the box open.
Inside was a stack of yellowed papers, sealed in a plastic sleeve.
Vincent pulled them out. He ripped the plastic open and unfolded the heavy, notarized documents.
He read the first page, his eyes moving rapidly across the text.
A slow, disbelieving smile spread across his face.
“It’s here,” Vincent breathed. “The original, unmodified deed. Fully notarized by a federal judge. Transferring sole ownership of this building, the land, and the brand rights of Hale’s Original... to Margaret Anne Carter.”
Tears spilled down my cheeks. My mother had been vindicated. She owned the very place that had destroyed her life.
“And because she passed away,” Vincent said, looking up at me, “the automated trust protocol initiates at midnight tonight. The property transfers to her next of kin.”
He walked around the prep counter and handed the papers to me.
“It’s yours, Emily,” Vincent said softly. “You own my restaurant.”
I stared at the papers, my hands trembling violently. I was a housemaid who lived in a cramped, two-bedroom apartment. Now, I owned a multimillion-dollar piece of prime real estate.
“I don’t want to take your restaurant, Vincent,” I cried. “This is your legacy.”
“It was built on a lie,” Vincent said firmly. “It belongs to your family.”
Before I could process the magnitude of the moment, the heavy steel back door of the kitchen burst open.
The beam of a high-powered flashlight hit us, blinding me.
“Step away from the counter, Vincent,” a cold, familiar voice echoed through the dark kitchen.
Marcus Vance walked into the room, holding a sleek, black handgun aimed directly at Vincent’s chest.
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Behind him stood Rosalind, her red dress soaked from the rain, her eyes burning with a desperate, manic fury.
“I knew your mother was a paranoid old bat,” Marcus sneered. “Hand over the documents, Emily. Or I’ll put a bullet in Vincent’s heart and take them off your dead body.”
