Chapter 7 - The Trap in the Mountains
The cottage was eerily silent as the antique grandfather clock struck seven o'clock. Erin paced back and forth in the kitchen, her anxiety ratcheting higher with every passing second. Lucy was asleep in her bedroom, exhausted from the afternoon's festivities, completely unaware of the shadow that had fallen over their lives.
Roman stood by the front door, pulling on his heavy leather gloves. He had refused to stay for dinner, insisting that he had urgent business to settle before the holiday could truly begin.
“You can’t go out there, Roman,” Erin begged, her hands grabbing his arm to hold him back. “That man is a killer. It’s a trap! If you sign those papers, or if you go to that mill alone, he won't let you walk away alive!”
Roman looked down at her hands on his coat. Slowly, he placed his warm palm over hers. “Victor thinks I’ve gone soft because I moved to Vermont, Erin. He thinks because I want peace, I’ve forgotten how to fight. If I don't face him tonight, he will spend the next ten years terrorizing this town and threatening you and Lucy to get leverage over me.”
“Call the FBI! Call the state police!” Erin urged, tears brimming in her eyes. “Don't do this the old way!”
“The law takes time, Erin. You taught me that,” Roman said, a faint, melancholic smile touching his lips. “I have to handle this my way so that when I walk back through your door, the past is truly dead. I promise you, I’m coming back for that roasted chicken.”
He leaned down and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to her forehead. Erin closed her eyes, breathing in the scent of cedar, snow, and leather, terrified that it would be the last time she ever saw him.
Ten minutes later, Roman’s SUV pulled into the snow-covered gravel lot of the abandoned Pinehaven Lumber Mill. The rusted corrugated metal roofs groaned under the weight of the snow. High above, the icy wind howled through the skeletal rafters.
Roman stepped out of the vehicle and walked into the cavernous main warehouse. In the center of the concrete floor, under the yellow beam of a single halogen work light, Victor Moretti stood flanked by four armed enforcers wearing heavy winter parkas.
“You actually came alone,” Victor laughed, clapping his hands together. “The great Roman Vescari, brought to heel by a country librarian and a little girl. Love makes kings into fools.”
“The papers, Victor,” Roman said flatly, walking until he stood ten feet away from the halogen light. “Give me the release forms for the northern transport routes, and take your blood money.”
Victor pulled a stack of legal documents from his coat, tossing them onto an old wooden crate. “Oh, you'll sign them, Roman. But I’m not letting you walk out of here to build a happy little family. When word gets out that Roman Vescari was wiped out in a tragic winter warehouse fire, every territory you built falls directly into my lap.”
The four enforcers pulled semi-automatic handguns from their jackets, their muzzles aimed squarely at Roman’s chest.
Roman didn't flinch. He didn't even raise his hands. Instead, he pulled out his watch, glanced at the face, and sighed.
“You always were arrogant, Victor,” Roman said softly. “You assumed because I came alone, I came unprotected.”
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Suddenly, the warehouse’s high windows shattered with deafening explosions of sound and light. Flashbang grenades detonated in mid-air, blinding Victor and his men with blinding white brilliance and concussive shockwaves. Before the smoke could clear, dozens of heavily armed, tactical-gear-clad federal agents flooded the mill through every entrance, their assault rifles drawn and laser sights painting the walls.
“FEDERAL AGENTS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS! DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW!”
