Chapter 13 - The Fire at the Boathouse
Three days later, the quiet lakeside retreat in upstate New York offered a temporary sanctuary from the media storm engulfing the city.
The estate’s vintage boathouse stood on the edge of the dark, still water, surrounded by towering pines. Inside, Vivia stood by the large wooden workbench, carefully laying out her mother's antique silk gown. With a pair of small brass shears and a spool of matching ivory thread, she began repairing the ripped inner seam that had guarded the truth for so long.
"You don't have to fix it yourself, Viv," Rafe said, walking in with two mugs of hot coffee. "We can hire the best textile conservator in the country."
Vivia smiled gently, shaking her head as she pulled the needle through the delicate fabric. "Mom taught me how to stitch when I was six, Rafe. This dress survived Marcella’s cruelty, Rostov’s men, and thirty years of secrets. It deserves to be mended by family."
Suddenly, the lights overhead flickered and went out.
The low, rhythmic rumble of an approaching marine engine broke the silence of the lake.
Rafe immediately set down the mugs, his instincts kicking into overdrive as he drew his concealed sidearm. "Stay down, Vivia. Behind the tool chest."
A blinding high-intensity spotlight cut through the glass windows of the boathouse, turning the shadows into stark, jagged shapes.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
A hail of suppressed gunfire shattered the upper window panes, showering the wooden floor with glass shards.
"Rostov’s remaining loyalists," Rafe hissed, pulling Vivia down to the cold floorboards as bullets chewed through the cedar walls. "They know the federal trial starts next week, and they want the physical hard copies before we hand them to the grand jury!"
A heavy splash sounded near the outer dock, followed by the metallic click of a breach charge being clamped onto the boathouse’s double doors.
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"They're blowing the entrance!" Rafe shouted, firing three rounds through the wooden door paneling. A muffled grunt came from the other side, but the charge’s electronic countdown timer let out a sharp, high-pitched whine.
Three. Two. One.
