Chapter 6 - THE VAULT
The brass key felt heavy in my palm. It was old, the metal slightly tarnished, with the number 404 stamped into the bow.
"Saint Jude's," Marco said, recognizing the shape of the key instantly. "The old cathedral downtown. They have a private depository in the basement for high-tier donors."
"Vincent despises Saint Jude's," Giana said, her voice retaining its sharp clarity. "He argued with the Bishop twenty years ago over a real estate deal. He hasn't set foot inside since."
Marco turned to me, his expression grave. "If Vincent realizes Mama gave you this key, he won't wait for a court order. He will send men to kill you. Both of you." He glanced at Dom, who was still gripping the brass fire poker.
"We need to go now," I said, slipping the key into my pocket.
"Dom stays here," Marco ordered. "I have a security team assembling outside. The estate will be locked down. No one gets in."
Dom opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. "Listen to him, Dom. Your lungs can't handle a sprint through the city in the freezing cold. Stay with Giana. Protect her."
Dom looked at the elderly woman, then gave me a sharp nod.
Ten minutes later, Marco and I were in the back of an armored black sedan, speeding toward downtown Chicago. The tension inside the car was thick, the silence heavy with the weight of a seventeen-year-old murder.
"Why didn't she tell you?" I asked quietly, watching the gray city blur past the window. "If Giana had the ledger all this time, why let Vincent stay in power?"
Marco stared straight ahead. "Because for the first ten years, Vincent held the board by the throat. If Mama had produced the ledger then, Vincent would have claimed she forged it, had her committed, and likely arranged an 'accident' for both of us. She was waiting for me to gain enough power to protect her. But then... the dementia started."
"And the window closed," I realized.
"Yes." Marco finally looked at me. "Your mother took the blame to buy my mother time. Elena sacrificed her name so Giana could survive."
A knot of profound grief and pride tightened in my chest. My mother hadn't just been a terrified maid running from the mafia. She had been a shield.
The car pulled up to the imposing Gothic facade of Saint Jude’s Cathedral. Snow had begun to fall, dusting the gargoyles perched above the massive oak doors.
We entered the cathedral. The air was frigid, smelling of melting wax and old incense. Marco led me past the pews, toward a restricted door near the sacristy. He spoke quietly to an elderly priest, who paled when he saw Marco, but nodded and unlocked the heavy iron gate leading down to the crypts.
The basement was a labyrinth of stone corridors lined with small, reinforced brass doors.
"Box 404," I said, walking down the dim aisle.
I found it near the back. My hands shook as I inserted the key. It turned with a heavy, satisfying click.
I pulled the long metal box out and set it on a stone table in the center of the room.
Marco stood beside me as I lifted the lid.
Inside was a thick, leather-bound accounting ledger, its pages pristine. Next to it was a sealed envelope with my mother's handwriting on the front.
For Nora. When you are old enough to understand.
Tears pricked my eyes. I reached for the letter, my fingers brushing the paper.
Before I could pick it up, the heavy iron gate at the top of the stairs slammed shut with a deafening crash.
Marco spun around, instantly stepping in front of me.
Footsteps echoed on the stone stairs.
A man in a dark suit walked down into the crypt. It was Pierce—my former catering manager. Only he wasn't wearing his hospitality uniform. He was holding a suppressed semi-automatic pistol, aimed directly at Marco.
"Vincent sends his regards," Pierce said, his voice dripping with the same smug superiority he had used when he fired me.
Reversal: Pierce hadn't fired me just because I argued with a guest. He had recognized me. He was Vincent's eyes and ears on the ground.
"You're out of your depth, Pierce," Marco said, his voice terrifyingly calm.
"Vincent pays substantially better than you do, Marco," Pierce sneered. "Slide the box across the table. Then turn around."
"And then you execute us," Marco stated smoothly. "A tragic robbery in the crypts."
"Something like that," Pierce cocked the gun. "The box. Now."
I gripped the edge of the stone table, my heart hammering. We were trapped in a stone basement with a man aiming a gun at us.
But Marco didn't reach for the box.
Instead, he reached inside his custom-tailored suit jacket.
I expected him to pull out a wallet, or a phone to negotiate. I forgot that Marco Ferraro, despite his corporate polish and philanthropic mother, was the heir to an empire built on violence.
Marco drew a matte-black Glock 19 with blinding speed.
He didn't hesitate. He didn't issue a warning.
May you like
He fired.
The gunshot in the enclosed stone crypt was deafening.
