The razor blade caught the silver-threaded seam of Arthur Kingsley’s pillow and opened it with one clean pull.

Dominic Rossi hit the hood of the lead Suburban with a sickening, metallic crunch that echoed off the stone walls of the courtyard.

The gunfire below abruptly ceased.

Shouts in Italian and English rose through the rain. Flashlight beams flicked upward, cutting through the darkness, catching the edge of the master terrace.

Arthur didn't give them time to aim. He stepped onto the terrace, raised the short-barreled shotgun, and pumped three heavy slugs down into the cluster of men scrambling around the crushed SUV.

The concussive blasts scattered the assault team, screams of pain mingling with the sound of ricochets whining off stone.

Arthur turned, grabbed Clara by the forearm, and pulled her back into the bedroom, slamming the terrace doors shut just as a hail of automatic fire chewed through the glass, sending crystalline shards showering across the carpet.

“Move!” Arthur ordered.

Clara was already ahead of him. She didn't flinch as wood splinters bit into the sleeve of her oversized sweater. She followed him to the massive stone fireplace on the eastern wall. Arthur reached into the carved molding, finding a concealed toggle switch. With a heavy groan of counterweights, the entire hearth swung inward, revealing a narrow, descending spiral of concrete steps cut directly into the foundation.

“Down,” Arthur commanded. “I’m right behind you.”

Clara descended into the darkness, her Glock held high, finger straight along the frame. Her boots found purchase on the damp concrete. The air here was cold, smelling of earth, limestone, and ancient motor oil. Behind her, Arthur stepped into the opening and hauled the stone hearth shut. The latch sealed with a heavy, magnetic thud, instantly muffling the sounds of gunfire and shouting from the upper floors.

Complete darkness enveloped them for three seconds before Arthur clicked on a low-lumen red tactical light.

The red glow painted the sharp angles of his face, making him look like a demon carved from granite. Blood from a minor glass cut was running down his left temple, mixing with the rain that had soaked his dark hair.

“You okay?” Arthur asked, his voice low in the narrow stairwell.

“I’m fine,” Clara said, steadying her breath. “Where does this lead?”

“The original 1920s carriage house behind the orchard,” Arthur said, moving past her to take the point. “It’s buried under an earthen berm. They won't have it covered yet; Dominic didn't know about this route. Only my father and I had the schematics.”

They moved quickly, their footsteps silent on the damp stairs. As they descended deeper into the earth, Clara could feel the cold radiating through the concrete walls, but beneath the sweater, Arthur’s presence was like a furnace at her back.

“Thomas told me you were ruthless,” Clara said quietly as they reached the lower corridor. “He said you were the only man in New York who could keep the peace because everyone was too terrified to cross you.”

Arthur didn't stop walking. “Your brother was right. I was ruthless. But I had rules. Dominic didn't understand the difference between power and slaughter. He thought fear was enough.”

“And you?”

“Fear keeps them from running,” Arthur muttered, his eyes scanning the pipe-lined ceiling ahead. “Loyalty keeps them from shooting you in your sleep. I lost my grip, Clara. Ninety days of that poison... I stopped checking the manifests myself. I trusted Dominic’s word because I was too tired to read the ledger lines.”

“It wasn't your fault,” she said softly.

Arthur stopped at a heavy steel bulkhead door. He turned and looked down at her in the dim crimson light. His eyes were wide, dark, and filled with an intensity that made Clara’s pulse skip a beat.

“A man who leads is responsible for everything that happens under his roof,” Arthur said, his voice dropping into a rough whisper. “Thomas died because I was too blind to see the snake sitting at my right hand. That makes it my fault. And I am going to balance that account before this week is over.”

He turned back to the door, punched an eight-digit code into a rusted electronic pad, and pulled down on the heavy dogging wheel.

The door swung outward with a hiss of pressurized seals.

They emerged into a dark, subterranean garage beneath the roots of the apple orchard. Resting on the concrete floor was not an armored SUV or a flash sports car, but an unassuming, mud-splattered 2018 Ford F-250 with heavy-duty off-road suspension and blacked-out windows.

Arthur moved to the truck, unlocked it with a manual key, and threw his shotgun into the back seat.

“Get in,” he said.

Clara climbed into the passenger seat, the leather cold against her legs. Arthur jumped behind the wheel, hit the ignition, and the diesel engine roared to life with a deep, muffled growl. He hit a remote on the visor; forty yards ahead, a section of the earthen wall slid upward, revealing a dark dirt track that wound through the dense woods toward the back country roads.

He dropped the truck into gear and slammed the gas.

The truck leaped forward, bursting out into the torrential rain of the upstate woods. Behind them, through the rearview mirror, Clara saw the orange glow of flames rising into the night sky.

The Kingsley estate was burning.

Clara looked at the man beside her. His hands were locked on the steering wheel, his jaw set like iron, his face illuminated only by the dull green glow of the dashboard instruments.

“Where are we going?” Clara asked.

Arthur shifted into third gear, his eyes fixed on the black road winding through the trees.