Chapter 4 - The Sound of Breath Behind the Concrete
The flashlight in Luca’s left hand wavered.
The white circle of light shook violently across the cracked tiled floor.
He did not let go of the old doctor’s throat.
If anything, his fingers dug deeper into the wrinkled skin.
“You’re lying,” Luca whispered.
His voice wasn't loud.
It was a hollow, razor-sharp hiss that made the freezing basement feel even colder.
“My mother died on Route 41.”
He stepped forward, pushing the doctor hard against the steel cabinet.
The metal groaned in protest.
“I identified her body at the Cook County morgue.”
The doctor gasped for air, his fingernails clawing at Luca’s massive wrist.
“You... you identified... a dental record...”
The doctor’s face was turning purple.
“Carlo Bellini... switched... the charts...”
Luca’s chest rose and fell in ragged, uneven bursts.
I could see the veins pulsing like thick ropes against his neck.
“Luca,” I whispered, stepping into the freezing water beside him.
“Let him breathe. He can’t talk if you crush his windpipe.”
Luca looked at me.
His dark eyes were wild, glazed with twenty-two years of unraveled grief.
For a terrifying second, I thought he might turn on me.
Then his fingers unclenched.
The old doctor crashed to the wet floor, coughing and gagging violently on his knees.
He rubbed his bruised neck, spitting a mixture of saliva and blood into the puddle.
“Start talking,” Luca commanded, stepping back.
He cocked the hammer of his Sig Sauer.
The metallic click sounded like a death sentence in the enclosed vault.
“Her name is Dr. Arthur Vance,” I noticed on the plastic badge clipped to the doctor's stained coat.
“Dr. Vance,” I said, keeping my voice gentle, trying to anchor the room.
“Why did Carlo keep Lucia Moretti alive?”
Vance looked up at me with sunken, haunted eyes.
“The trust accounts required a living biometric verification every five years.”
Luca went completely rigid.
“Biometrics?”
Vance nodded weakly, his shoulders trembling beneath his dirty coat.
“A retinal scan. A thumbprint. A fresh signature witnessed by an offshore notary.”
The doctor wiped his bloody mouth.
“Carlo Bellini was smart. He knew a forged power of attorney would eventually trigger an audit in Zurich.”
“So he kept her in a medically induced coma,” Luca realized, his voice trembling with sheer horror.
“Not a coma,” Vance corrected quietly.
He looked up at Luca with genuine pity.
“She was awake.”
The words felt like a physical blow.
Luca staggered back half a step, colliding with the edge of the operating table.
“She was awake?” Luca’s voice cracked.
“Most of the time,” Vance whispered.
“We kept her sedated enough so she couldn't run. But clear enough to speak when the Swiss inspectors arrived.”
“Where did Carlo take her?!” Luca lunged forward again.
This time, Vance didn't flinch. He looked like a man who had already accepted his damnation.
“Through the drainage tunnel. It connects to the old gravel quarry half a mile south.”
Footsteps splashed furiously down the corridor.
Daniel appeared in the doorway, his assault rifle lowered, breathing hard.
His tactical vest was peppered with plaster dust.
“Boss! The perimeter is clear. We dropped four Bellini gunners in the courtyard.”
Daniel caught sight of the old doctor, then the blood on the examination table.
“What the hell is this place?”
Luca didn't answer Daniel.
He looked at the open drainage pipe at the back of the vault.
The rusted iron grate had been freshly cut with an acetylene torch.
The scent of burning metal was still thick in the damp air.
“Daniel,” Luca said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
“Boss?”
“Call Marco. Tell him to mobilize every soldier in the northern district.”
Luca picked up his mother’s old blue coat from the table where he had laid it.
“Seal every road leading out of Kenosha and Racine.”
He looked down at Dr. Vance.
“Tie him up. If my mother dies tonight, shoot him between the eyes.”
“Understood,” Daniel said without hesitation.
Luca turned to the dark opening of the drainage tunnel.
“Emma. Stay with Daniel.”
I looked at the black, muddy tunnel.
I looked at the water dripping from the ceiling.
Then I looked at Luca Moretti.
Beneath the lethal mafia kingpin, I saw a sixteen-year-old boy whose world had just been shattered.
“No,” I said firmly.
Luca turned his head sharply.
“This is not a negotiation, Emma.”
“Your mother’s coat has the stitches I opened,” I said, my heart pounding against my ribs.
“I know what her handwriting looks like. I know the fabric.”
I stepped closer to him, ignoring the freezing water soaking my sneakers.
“And you’re about to walk into an ambush alone.”
Luca stared at me for three long, silent seconds.
The icy hardness in his eyes cracked, just for a moment.
“Keep your head down,” he muttered.
He reached into his jacket, pulled a compact Glock 19 from his waist, and shoved it into my hands.
The steel was surprisingly heavy and warm from his body.
“Do you know how to use it?”
“Point and pull,” I whispered.
“Disengage the safety first,” he said, his thumb flicking a small switch on the frame.
He stepped into the muddy drainage pipe.
“Stay on my heels.”
We crawled through the darkness.
The concrete pipe was narrow, forcing us to hunch over in the freezing slime.
Every breath Luca took in front of me was heavy and jagged.
After what felt like an eternity, cold air hit my face.
The roar of the blizzard returned.
We emerged at the bottom of a deep, abandoned limestone quarry.
The white snow was stained with black tire ruts.
Fifty yards away, the headlights of two black Suburbans cut through the swirling snow.
A small group of armed men was hurriedly loading a heavy stretcher into the back of the second vehicle.
On the stretcher lay a figure wrapped in thick grey wool blankets.
An oxygen mask was strapped to her face.
Even through the storm, I could see thin, pale white hair whipping in the wind.
Lucia.
Beside the vehicle stood an older man in an expensive cashmere overcoat.
Silver hair.
A heavy silver-tipped walking cane.
Carlo Bellini.
Luca didn't shout.
He didn't fire a warning shot.
He sprinted out of the tunnel into the blinding snow, raising his weapon with lethal precision.
Bang! Bang!
The two guards loading the stretcher dropped instantly into the red-stained snow.
Carlo Bellini spun around, his cane slipping on the ice.
“Luca!” Carlo’s voice carried over the howling wind.
Moretti gunners inside the first Suburban immediately opened fire.
Bullets tore through the snowbanks around us.
Luca shoved me behind a massive rusted bulldozer tread.
Ping! Ping! Richochet!
“Carlo!” Luca roared, his voice louder than the storm.
“Step away from my mother!”
Carlo didn't run.
He grabbed the handle of the second Suburban’s door and wrenched it open.
He pulled a small black remote detonator from his heavy pocket.
He looked across the snowy expanse directly at Luca.
“You should have let the coat burn, boy!” Carlo yelled.
He pointed the remote toward the rear of the Suburban where the stretcher was secured.
“She’s rigged to blow the moment this transmitter leaves my hand!”
Luca stepped out from behind the bulldozer tread, lowering his gun an inch.
His face was completely pale.
“Carlo... don't.”
May you like
Carlo smiled a hideous, bloody grin.
“Throw down the gun, Luca. Or watch her die a second time.”
