Chapter 8 - THE CATACOMBS
They sprinted through the darkness of the panicked ballroom, slipping out through a side servant’s entrance before the emergency generators kicked on.
They burst out into the freezing rain and dove into the Aston Martin. Alessandro floored it, the tires squealing as they tore away from the Vance estate, leaving the chaos behind them.
“Did you get it?” Alessandro asked, his eyes locked on the dark road.
Sophie pulled the rusted iron key from her gown, her hands trembling. Her fingers were bleeding from the splintered wood. “The ledger wasn’t there. Just this.”
Alessandro glanced at the heavy, ancient key. He hit the brakes, pulling the car onto a secluded, dirt utility road, killing the headlights.
“Let me see it,” he said.
Sophie handed it to him. Alessandro traced his thumb over the intricate, cross-shaped bow of the key. His face went pale in the dim moonlight.
“I know this key,” Alessandro whispered. “It belongs to the old catacombs beneath St. Jude’s Cathedral in Brooklyn. The Russos own the property. It’s where they dispose of... problems.”
Sophie’s stomach violently dropped. “That’s where they’re holding my father.”
“Your father didn't hide the ledger in the clock,” Alessandro realized, his voice tightening. “He hid the key to the vault where the ledger is. He took the ledger down into the catacombs himself.”
“We have to go to St. Jude’s,” Sophie said, gripping his arm. “Now.”
“Sophie, it’s a fortress. If Camilla’s father is keeping him there, there will be twenty armed men guarding the crypt.”
“I don't care if there are a hundred!” Sophie shouted, tears finally breaking through. “He’s my father! He’s been rotting in a dark hole for two years because he tried to stop monsters from ruining our lives! I am not leaving him there!”
Alessandro looked at her desperate, tear-streaked face. The hardened mafia capo swallowed hard. He reached out and gently wiped a drop of blood from her cheek.
“Alright,” he said softly. “We go to war.”
They drove to Brooklyn in silence, the tension in the car thick enough to cut. When they arrived at St. Jude’s, the towering gothic cathedral looked like a black mountain against the rainy night sky.
Alessandro parked three blocks away. He opened the trunk and strapped a tactical vest over his ruined shirt, loading three spare magazines into his belt. He handed Sophie a small, silver pistol.
“Safety is off. Point and pull. Only if you have to,” he commanded.
They slipped through the wrought-iron gates, moving like ghosts through the graveyard. Alessandro easily picked the lock on the heavy oak doors of the rectory.
They descended a spiraling stone staircase into the catacombs. The air grew freezing and smelled of ancient dust and damp earth. Dim yellow bulbs hung from the vaulted ceilings, casting long, terrifying shadows.
“Stay behind me,” Alessandro breathed, raising his weapon.
They moved through rows of stone tombs until they heard voices echoing from a chamber ahead.
Alessandro peeked around the corner. Four Russo guards were sitting around a card table, smoking. Behind them was a heavy iron door with a massive, rusted keyhole.
Alessandro held up three fingers to Sophie. Three, two, one.
He stepped out and fired four times in rapid succession. The guards dropped before they could even draw their weapons.
Sophie rushed forward, her hands shaking as she slid the rusted key into the iron door. It turned with a heavy, grinding clank.
She pulled the door open.
The cell was pitch black, smelling of mold and sickness. Sitting on a cot in the corner was a frail, emaciated man with long, unkempt white hair.
“Papa?” Sophie whispered, her voice cracking.
The man slowly lifted his head. His eyes widened in disbelief. “Sophie? My beautiful girl... how?”
Sophie dropped to her knees, throwing her arms around his fragile body, sobbing uncontrollably. “I’m here, Papa. I’ve got you.”
“You shouldn't have come,” her father wheezed, terror filling his eyes. “They’ll kill you.”
“No one is dying tonight,” Alessandro said, stepping into the cell.
Sophie’s father looked at Alessandro. He didn't look afraid of the mafia capo. He looked deeply, profoundly sorrowful.
“Lorenzo’s son,” her father whispered. “You grew up to look just like him.”
“We need the ledger, sir,” Alessandro said respectfully. “I can end the Russos tonight, but I need the proof.”
Her father slowly reached under the filthy mattress of his cot. He pulled out a thick, leather-bound book.
“I kept it safe,” he coughed, handing it to Alessandro. “Your brother’s innocence is in there, boy. Along with my own.”
Suddenly, the slow, mocking sound of clapping echoed from the hallway.
Sophie spun around, raising her pistol.
May you like
Standing in the doorway, holding a submachine gun and flanked by ten heavily armed men, was Camilla’s father—Don Vincenzo Russo.
“A touching family reunion,” Vincenzo sneered. “Kill them all. Burn the book.”
