CHAPTER 3: THE MAFIA HEIR HELPS ME STEAL MY OWN BUNKER

Killian Thorne didn't waste time.

One phone call. "Move. Black Mansion. Bunker blueprint. Ten men. Now."

In less than ten minutes, ten black SUVs pulled up to my house. No, to Damian's house. My house now, I corrected in my head. Men in black tactical gear, with guns that looked like they belonged in movies, jumped out. They didn't knock. They kicked open the side gate that led to the bunker entrance hidden behind the rose garden.

Damian was still upstairs with Bianca, probably comforting her about the slap. He didn't hear. Or he didn't care. That was his mistake.

"Show me," Killian said to me, his hand on my lower back, guiding me forward. His touch was hot even through my dress. Possessive. Like I already belonged to his world.

I led them to the hidden door. It was covered in ivy, steel underneath. My father's design. He built this bunker for me when I was 15, after the first market crash. He said, "Elena, one day the world will end, and the smart ones will already be underground." Damian took it and put his name on the deed while my father was in the hospital dying.

I put my master key card in. It beeped red. ACCESS DENIED.

I froze. He changed the code?

Killian looked at me, one eyebrow raised. "Problem, Partner?"

"He changed it," I whispered, embarrassed. My $20 million deal failing on a door code.

Killian didn't laugh. He just nodded to one of his men. The man pulled out a small black device, placed it on the scanner. In three seconds, it sparked, and the door clicked green. OPEN.

"My partner doesn't need his permission to enter her own bunker," Killian said, his voice cold enough to make his men step back.

The bunker door opened with a hiss of air. Cold, stale, perfect air. Inside, it was huge. Bigger than our house upstairs. Lights turned on automatically, row after row.

My father's bunker. My bunker.

And it was full.

On the left, shelves of food - enough for 10 people for 10 years. Canned meat, rice, beans, water tanks, freeze-dried fruits. On the right, a medical room with hospital beds, antibiotics, surgical tools, blood bags. In the back, a weapons wall - rifles, shotguns, pistols, ammunition stacked like books in a library. And in the center, a living area with two bedrooms, a kitchen, a monitor room with 12 screens showing the entire property above.

Damian had added one more thing. A pink nursery. For Bianca's baby. With a crib and toys and a sign that said BABY REID.

I felt my nails dig into my palm. He built a nursery in MY father's bunker for his mistress's child.

"Burn it," I said quietly.

"What?" one of Killian's men asked.

I pointed at the nursery. "Burn the nursery. All of it. I don't want his bastard's smell in my father's house."

Killian looked at me, then smiled. That dangerous smile again. "You heard Mrs. Thorne. Burn it."

Mrs. Thorne. Not Mrs. Reid. Mrs. Thorne.

My knees almost gave out. He said it like it was already decided.

His men moved fast. They dragged the crib, the pink blankets, the toys, the sign, into the garden above and set it on fire. Black smoke rose. From upstairs window, I heard Bianca scream, "What's burning?! Damian, look!"

Let them look. Let them smell their future burning.

For the next three hours, we emptied the bunker. Killian's men were professionals. Food, medicine, weapons, water filters, fuel generators, everything. Loaded into trucks. Not a single can left. They left the shelves bare, the walls echoing.

"This is all going to my bunker," Killian told me while we watched. "My bunker is bigger. Deeper. Built for war, not for hiding. You will like it."

"Our bunker," I corrected him.

He looked down at me, surprised, then laughed, low and deep. "Yes. Our bunker."

When the last truck left, the bunker was empty. Just cold concrete and the burn mark where the nursery was. I stood in the middle of it, my father's legacy, now hollow.

"Why did you help me?" I asked suddenly. "You could have just taken the money and the information and left me. Why bring ten men to steal my own bunker for me?"

Killian stepped closer. He was so close I could see the small scar under his left eye. He took my hand - my small, shaking hand - in his big, rough hand that had killed people.

"Because three years ago, on your wedding day to that idiot," he said, his voice barely a whisper, "I was standing across the street. I saw you. White dress. Crying because he was late to his own wedding. And I told my father, 'That girl will be wasted on him. She should be with me.'"

My heart stopped.

"My father said, wait. She is loyal. She will never leave. So I waited three years, Elena. I watched your husband bring that woman into your house. I watched you cry in your garden at 2 AM. I waited."

He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers were warm.

"And today, you finally walked to my gate yourself, with $20 million and the end of the world in your backpack. So don't ask me why I helped you, Elena. Ask yourself why it took you three years to come to me."

I couldn't breathe. This man - this mafia heir that everyone feared - had been watching me, waiting for me, for three years?

"Tomorrow morning, the divorce papers will be ready," he said, letting go of my hand. "My lawyer will make sure Damian signs. He won't have a choice. And tomorrow night, you move into my mansion. The apocalypse is in six days. We have a lot to prepare. And," he added, his eyes dropping to my lips for a second, "we have a lot to learn about each other, Partner."

From upstairs, we heard Damian shouting, "ELENA! WHERE IS THE BUNKER FOOD?! WHO TOOK IT?! THE SAFE IS EMPTY! ELENA!"

I smiled. The first real smile in three years.

"Let him shout," I whispered. "He has six days left to shout."

Killian took my hand again and led me out of my empty bunker, out of my old life, towards the black mansion where the lights were now on. For me. For the first time in three years, someone turned on the lights for me.

Behind us, Damian's voice got more desperate. But no one answered.

His world was already ending. He just didn't know it yet.