Chapter 3 - The Secret Vault of St. Catherine’s
The black convoy tore through the blizzard on Interstate 94.
Three armored SUVs cut through the whiteout like sharks through foam.
I sat in the back of the lead Cadillac between Luca and Daniel.
The silence inside the cabin was heavier than lead.
Luca stared out into the blinding snow.
In his lap lay his mother’s torn overcoat.
His thumb traced the embroidered initials on the inner collar: L.M.
“You don't belong in this world, Emma,” Luca spoke without turning his head.
The engine hummed low beneath our feet.
“I didn't choose to find the bracelet, Mr. Moretti.”
He turned his dark, intense eyes toward me.
“You chose to protect it.”
He leaned closer.
The rough stubble on his jaw shadowed his fierce features.
“Most people in Chicago would have handed those bands to Vanessa for ten thousand dollars.”
“I’m not for sale,” I said simply.
A faint, dangerous smirk touched the corner of his lips.
“Good. Because loyalty is the only currency I respect.”
An hour later, the convoy slowed to a crawl.
We turned down an unplowed, winding country lane surrounded by dead pine trees.
At the crest of the hill stood St. Catherine’s.
It was an imposing Gothic asylum built from black limestone.
Half the slate roof had collapsed under the weight of decades of snow.
Rusted iron bars covered every window.
A massive rusted chain held the perimeter gates shut.
The lead SUV rammed the gate without braking.
The iron links shattered like glass.
The convoy roared up the overgrown driveway and skidded to a halt before the front steps.
Eight heavily armed men in tactical gear spilled out into the sub-zero wind.
Luca stepped out into the blizzard, pulling a customized Sig Sauer from his shoulder holster.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered, grabbing my wrist with shocking warmth.
His grip was firm, protective, and unyielding.
We moved up the rotting concrete steps.
The front oak doors hung crooked on their hinges.
Inside, the air was freezing and smelled of damp plaster, bat guano, and rust.
Flashlight beams sliced through the thick, swirling dust.
“Sweep the ground floor,” Luca barked to his men.
“Look for recent footprints, heaters, or generators.”
I looked around the cavernous foyer.
Peeling floral wallpaper hung in strips like decaying skin.
Broken gurneys littered the corridors.
Daniel knelt by the floorboards near the front desk.
“Boss.”
Luca walked over, his boots crunching on broken glass.
“What is it?”
Daniel ran his gloved finger along the dusty floorboards.
“Tire tracks. Wheelchair marks. Not old.”
Luca’s eyes flared in the flashlight beam.
“They were keeping someone here.”
“Or they moved them recently,” Daniel added grimly.
Suddenly, an engine roared from the rear courtyard.
Crack!
A high-powered rifle bullet shattered the window above our heads.
Plaster exploded like shrapnel.
Luca reacted instantly.
His heavy arm slammed into my chest, knocking me violently to the floor.
He shielded my entire body with his own bulk.
The scent of his expensive cologne and cold sweat filled my senses.
Crack! Crack! Crack!
Automatic gunfire shredded the wooden reception desk.
“Ambush!” Daniel roared, returning fire with his submachine gun.
The darkness erupted into flashing yellow muzzle flashes and deafening echoes.
Luca pulled me backward along the floor into a narrow hallway.
“Are you hit?” he demanded, his hands checking my shoulders, my ribs.
“N-no! I’m okay!”
My teeth were chattering uncontrollably.
“Daniel, pin them down!” Luca shouted over the din.
“We’re going to the lower archives!”
He dragged me to my feet and pulled me down a narrow flight of concrete stairs.
The stairs led directly into the subterranean basement.
Down here, the sound of the gunfire muffled into distant thuds.
The basement was pitch-black.
Luca flicked on his tactical flashlight.
The beam revealed heavy iron doors lining a damp, dripping corridor.
Old asylum cells.
The floor was flooded with an inch of freezing, stagnant water.
We splashed forward, the cold biting through my sneakers.
“Why would your sister be here?” I whispered, trembling.
“Carlo wouldn't keep her in an ordinary house,” Luca answered grimly.
“He needed a place that didn't officially exist on any municipal map.”
We reached the end of the long corridor.
A reinforced vault door stood embedded in the bedrock.
A modern digital keypad glowed faintly blue on the wall beside it.
Luca stopped.
“Modern security. In an abandoned asylum.”
His eyes narrowed.
“Daniel was right. This place isn't dead.”
He raised his weapon and aimed directly at the electronic keypad.
Bang!
Sparks erupted.
The heavy magnetic lock disengaged with a loud hydraulic hiss.
Luca kicked the vault door wide open.
The smell that drifted out made my stomach turn.
Antiseptic.
Rubbing alcohol.
And fresh blood.
Luca swept the flashlight across the interior of the room.
It wasn't a dungeon.
It was an operating room.
Modern medical monitors blinked in the dark.
An IV stand stood beside a steel examination table.
The plastic bag of saline was still dripping slowly into an empty basin.
Drip.
Drip.
Luca stepped up to the table.
He pressed his hand against the leather mattress.
His fingers pulled back.
“It’s warm,” Luca whispered, horror bleeding into his voice.
“They were here twenty minutes ago.”
Suddenly, a weak, wet cough sounded from the shadows behind the medicine cabinet.
Luca raised his pistol instantly.
“Show your hands! Now!”
A small, trembling figure slid out from between two steel lockers.
It wasn't a hitman.
It was an old man in a filthy white laboratory coat.
His hands were covered in iodine.
A silver crucifix hung around his frail neck.
“Don't... don't shoot,” the old man wheezed, falling to his knees.
Luca grabbed him by the throat, hoisting him off his feet with one arm.
“Who was in this bed?!”
The old doctor choked, kicking his legs weakly.
“Carlo... Carlo took her out the back tunnel... when the alarms tripped!”
“Who did he take?!” Luca roared, shaking him violently.
“The girl? Elena?!”
The old doctor looked at Luca with bloodshot, weeping eyes.
“Not Elena.”
Luca’s grip tightened.
“What did you say?”
The doctor gasped for air, pointing a trembling finger toward the bloody sheets on the gurney.
“Elena escaped five years ago! That wasn't Elena!”
Luca’s voice dropped to a terrifying whisper.
“Then who have you been keeping alive down here for twenty-two years?”
May you like
The doctor swallowed hard, his lips trembling violently.
“Your mother.”
