Chapter 2 - The Basement Beneath Juniper and Rye
Callum's mansion did not feel like a home.
It felt like a fortress pretending to be one.
Iron gates.
Stone walls.
Security cameras hidden beneath ivy.
Men stationed in hallways who looked like they could stop a war before breakfast.
I stood in the entrance covered in flour and smoke while Callum removed his coat.
“Guest room,” he said.
“I don't want a guest room.”
“You need somewhere safe.”
“I want my bakery.”
His expression tightened.
“So do I.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because it belongs to your grandmother.”
I froze.
“How do you know my grandmother?”
He walked toward the library.
“Come with me.”
I followed because apparently my life had become a string of terrible decisions.
He opened a drawer.
Inside were old photographs.
I saw my grandmother.
Standing beside a young man.
Callum's father.
My mouth went dry.
“What is this?”
“My father and your grandmother were business partners.”
“My grandmother owned a bakery.”
“She also owned half the block.”
I stared at him.
“No.”
“She did.”
“Why didn't she tell us?”
“Because she didn't want your family involved.”
He handed me another photograph.
There was my grandmother.
Callum's father.
A younger Lucian.
And my father.
I had never seen my father look like that.
Confident.
Healthy.
Alive.
My father died when I was nine.
I had been told it was an accident.
A car crash.
Now I wondered.
“What happened?”
Callum looked down.
“Our fathers were investing in the waterfront.”
“What waterfront?”
“The old docks.”
“That's where your family's company started?”
“Yes.”
“What does that have to do with my bakery?”
He was silent.
Then he said:
“The building under Juniper and Rye contained a safe.”
I laughed.
“A safe?”
“A very old one.”
“For money?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“Documents.”
“About what?”
“My father.”
I stared.
He continued.
“Twenty-two years ago, someone inside my father's organization tried to destroy him.”
“Who?”
“We don't know.”
“That's convenient.”
“He survived the first attempt.”
“Then what happened?”
“Your father helped him escape.”
My chest tightened.
“My father?”
“Yes.”
“Then why did he die?”
Callum's jaw tightened.
“That's the part I'm trying to find out.”
That night, I barely slept.
At four in the morning, I found myself in the kitchen.
Callum was already there.
He was standing at the window with a cup of coffee.
“You don't sleep either?”
“Not much.”
I leaned against the counter.
“You really own half of Brooklyn?”
“No.”
“You own more?”
He almost smiled.
“Maybe.”
I laughed despite myself.
He looked at me.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Then why are you smiling?”
“I don't know.”
I stared at him.
He looked different without the coat.
Younger.
Less frightening.
Human.
I hated noticing.
Then he said:
“Your grandmother had a private room beneath the bakery.”
“I know.”
“Do you know the location?”
“Yes.”
“Can you remember how to get there?”
“Probably.”
“Then we go back tomorrow.”
“Back?”
“After dark.”
“It's burned.”
“Not completely.”
He looked at me.
“Whatever your grandmother left there, I need to know before the people hunting it find it.”
“Why should I help you?”
“Because the people who shot at you are coming back.”
He was right.
Again.
I hated that.
The next night, we returned.
The bakery smelled like smoke.
My eyes filled with tears.
Callum stood beside me.
“I'll rebuild it.”
“You can't replace it.”
“No.”
He looked at me.
“But I can rebuild it.”
We entered through the kitchen.
The basement door had survived.
I opened it.
The stairs descended into darkness.
Callum followed.
At the bottom was a brick wall.
I touched it.
“There's something here.”
“How do you know?”
“My grandmother used to tell me never to tap this wall.”
Callum pulled out a flashlight.
We examined the bricks.
One moved.
A hidden mechanism opened.
Inside was a steel door.
No lock.
Just a handprint scanner.
Callum looked at me.
“Try.”
I pressed my palm.
Nothing.
He tried.
Nothing.
Then I remembered something.
“My grandmother had a ring.”
“What kind?”
“Silver. With a green stone.”
“Where is it?”
“My mother has it.”
We called my mother.
She arrived an hour later.
When she saw Callum, she stopped.
“You're Ethan's son.”
“Yes.”
She looked frightened.
Then she handed me the ring.
I pressed it against the panel.
The door opened.
Inside was a room untouched for decades.
Boxes.
Files.
Photographs.
And a safe.
My mother started crying.
“My God.”
Callum looked at her.
“You knew.”
“I knew your father was protecting us.”
“From whom?”
She whispered:
“Your uncle.”
Callum froze.
“My uncle is dead.”
“No.”
My mother shook her head.
“He isn't.”
Then the lights went out.
A voice came from the darkness.
“Hello, Callum.”
We turned.
A man stepped from behind the shelves.
Older.
Silver-haired.
Smiling.
Callum's face went pale.
“Gabriel.”
His uncle.
May you like
Alive.
And holding a gun.
