Chapter 8 - The Fire In The Flour
The heat hit my face like a physical blow.
Flames roared toward the ceiling, feeding instantly on the spreading grease and the thick cloud of flour dust suspended in the air. The stainless-steel kitchen of Teresa’s old restaurant turned into a blinding, orange inferno within seconds.
Fourteen years ago, my mother had been trapped in this exact room, choking on smoke, watching the man she loved burn to save her.
Now, I was on my knees on the same tile floor.
“Move!” Adrian roared over the sound of the fire.
He grabbed my arm, hauling me to my feet. The heat was unbearable. Black smoke was already pooling near the ceiling, forcing us to crouch low.
Through the wall of flames, I could see Marco moving toward the alley door. He wasn't trying to shoot us anymore. He was sealing us in.
“He locked the deadbolt!” Sal yelled, coughing violently as he stumbled backward from the heat, clutching his baseball bat.
Adrian raised his weapon and fired three rapid shots into the heavy iron lock on the alley door. The metal sparked and shattered, but the heavy steel bar held firm.
“The front doors!” Adrian yelled, shoving me toward the swinging doors that led to the dining room.
We burst through the wooden doors, stumbling into the dark, quiet restaurant. The air here was still breathable, but the smoke was rapidly following us through the vents.
Celeste was already there.
She was frantically yanking on the brass handles of the main entrance doors.
“They’re locked!” Celeste screamed, her pristine red coat now covered in soot and flour. “The old man locked them with a padlock!”
Sal stumbled into the dining room behind us, wheezing heavily. He patted his pockets, his eyes wide with panic. “The keys... I left them in the kitchen office.”
“We can't go back in there,” Adrian said. The kitchen doors were already blistering, the paint bubbling from the intense heat on the other side.
He looked at the massive plate-glass windows facing Halsted Street.
Adrian didn't hesitate. He grabbed one of the heavy wooden dining chairs—the same kind Celeste had tried to throw away hours earlier—and swung it with brutal force into the center of the window.
The glass didn't shatter. It bounced back with a heavy thud.
“It’s reinforced!” Sal coughed, leaning heavily against a table. “Bulletproof. Teresa installed it after a drive-by in the nineties.”
We were trapped.
The smoke alarm finally began screaming, a piercing, deafening shriek that added to the absolute panic filling the room.
Celeste fell to her knees, sobbing hysterically. “We’re going to die in here. We’re going to burn alive just like Nico!”
“Shut up!” Adrian snapped, his eyes scanning the dark room for any exit.
Answer one: Teresa had reinforced the restaurant like a fortress to protect her family from the mafia.
Open two: How do you escape a fortress when the doors are locked from the inside?
I looked around desperately. My lungs were beginning to burn from the thickening smoke.
My eyes landed on the massive, framed photograph hanging on the far wall. It was a picture of Teresa and Nico standing in front of the restaurant on opening day.
Teresa had banned Celeste. She had paid a driver to murder my mother. She had built this fortress.
My mother left me instructions, Adrian had said earlier.
Teresa Moretti didn't leave anything to chance.
“Mr. Moretti!” I yelled over the alarm, running toward the photograph.
“Kate, get down!” Adrian ordered, running after me as the smoke lowered.
I ignored him. I grabbed the heavy wooden frame of the photograph and pulled it off the wall. It crashed to the floor, shattering the glass.
Behind the painting, set flush into the brick wall, was a small, heavy metal door.
A dumbwaiter.
Used to send wine up from the basement cellar.
“The cellar!” I choked out, pointing to the metal door. “The basement connects to the storm drains on the street! My mother told me stories about hiding down there during storms.”
Adrian’s eyes widened. He grabbed the handle and hauled the metal door open.
It was small. Only three feet wide. The heavy ropes and wooden pulley system were old, but they looked intact.
“It won't hold all of us,” Celeste panicked, running over. She shoved me out of the way, trying to climb into the small wooden box. “I go first!”
Adrian grabbed her by the scruff of her red coat and hauled her backward, throwing her onto the floor.
“You go last,” Adrian snarled.
He turned to Sal. The old man was on his knees, struggling to breathe, his face pale and slick with sweat.
Adrian lifted Sal effortlessly, practically folding the old man into the small wooden box.
“Lower him,” Adrian ordered me.
I grabbed the heavy, grease-stained ropes. My hands burned, the friction tearing at my skin as I lowered the heavy box down the pitch-black shaft. The box hit the bottom with a solid thud.
“Pull it up!” Adrian yelled, keeping an eye on the kitchen doors. Flames were beginning to lick through the cracks in the wood.
I hauled the ropes hand over hand. My muscles screamed, but adrenaline fueled me. The empty box locked into place at the top.
“Get in,” Adrian told me.
“What about you?” I asked, coughing violently as the smoke grew thicker.
“Get in the damn box, Kate!”
I didn't argue. I climbed inside, pulling my knees to my chest.
Adrian grabbed the ropes. But before he could lower me, Celeste lunged forward.
She grabbed Adrian’s arm, her face twisted in pure desperation. “Adrian, please! Don't leave me here! I’m sorry! I’m sorry about Nico!”
Adrian looked down at the woman who had ruined his family.
The kitchen doors finally gave way with a deafening crash, a fireball rolling across the dining room ceiling.
Adrian didn't say a word. He shoved Celeste toward the corner of the room, out of the direct path of the fire, and began rapidly lowering my box down the shaft.
Darkness swallowed me. The heat vanished, replaced by the damp, freezing air of the cellar.
I hit the bottom. Sal was already there, leaning against the cold brick wall, gasping for clean air.
I scrambled out of the box.
“Pull it up!” I yelled to Sal.
We both grabbed the ropes, pulling with everything we had. The box flew back up the shaft.
We waited in the pitch-black basement. The sound of the fire roaring above us was terrifying.
Ten seconds passed. Twenty.
“Adrian!” I screamed up the shaft.
No answer.
Then, a heavy thud echoed above. The ropes went taut, burning through my hands.
Something heavy had fallen into the box.
Sal and I didn't hesitate. We let the ropes slide, lowering the heavy weight as fast as we could without snapping the ancient pulleys.
The box hit the basement floor hard.
I rushed forward in the dark.
I reached inside the box.
My hands found expensive, soot-stained wool. A tailored suit.
“Adrian,” I sobbed, grabbing his shoulders and pulling him out onto the concrete floor.
He was coughing violently, his face covered in black soot, but he was alive.
“Celeste?” Sal gasped.
Adrian lay on the cold floor, staring up into the dark shaft.
“I tried to grab her,” Adrian whispered, his voice ragged and broken. “The ceiling collapsed. I couldn't reach her.”
The silence in the basement was heavy and absolute.
Celeste Romano had burned in the same room where she had sentenced Nico Moretti to death fourteen years ago.
Suddenly, a blinding beam of light cut through the darkness of the cellar.
Flashlights.
Heavy boots slammed against the concrete floor.
“Don't move!” a harsh voice ordered.
We were surrounded. Six men in tactical gear emerged from the shadows of the storm drain tunnels.
They weren't firefighters. They weren't police.
They were wearing the insignia of the Romano family.
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And stepping out from behind them, holding a heavy silver revolver, was Celeste’s father.
TITLE: The Don Of The Romanos
