Chapter 4 - THE BOY IN the VIDEO
“He’s in the restaurant basement,” I said, the realization settling over me like ice.
My private restaurant, the one I had just evacuated, had a sprawling, three-level sub-basement originally built during Prohibition. I rarely used the bottom level. It was a maze of old brick corridors and sealed vaults.
“It’s a trap,” my mother said, stepping away from the laptop. “He wants you to think he’s at the rail yard so you waste time driving across the city. Meanwhile, he executes Elena and Leo in your own basement to send a message.”
I looked over at Marco. He was stable, his breathing shallow but steady. The blood transfusion was doing its job, but he wasn’t waking up anytime soon.
“Stay with him,” I ordered my mother, grabbing a spare tactical vest from the clinic’s weapon locker.
“You cannot go in there blindly, Santiago,” she warned, grabbing my arm. “Kane’s men are highly trained mercenaries. They aren’t street thugs. And Kane… Kane isn’t just a doctor.”
I stopped, looking down at her. “What are you talking about?”
She swallowed hard, the ghosts of her past haunting her eyes. “Twenty-five years ago, before I met your father, I was married to someone else. An ambitious, cruel young surgeon who was building a black-market empire using patient data for blackmail. I ran away from him when I met your father.”
My jaw clenched. “Kane.”
“He is my first husband,” she whispered. “He is the original architect of the ledger. Your father stole it from him. Kane didn’t protect me and Elena out of the goodness of his heart. He protected us because he thought I would eventually lead him back to his empire. He views us as his property.”
The sickness in my stomach twisted into pure, unadulterated rage.
“I’m bringing them home, Mom,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “And I’m going to send Kane to hell.”
I left the clinic and drove back to the restaurant. I didn’t park out front. I abandoned the SUV two blocks away and moved through the shadows of the Chicago alleyways.
The restaurant looked entirely dark from the outside. The front doors were chained shut.
But I knew this building better than anyone.
I slipped down the narrow grate covering the alleyway storm drain, dropping into the ancient access tunnel that connected to the Prohibition-era basement. The air down here was thick with dust, mildew, and the faint, unmistakable smell of gunpowder.
I moved silently, my gun raised, clearing corner after corner.
The sub-basement was vast. Wine racks covered the walls, covered in decades of cobwebs.
Suddenly, I heard a sound.
It wasn’t a footstep. It wasn’t a voice.
It was a soft, muffled sob.
I froze, pressing my back against the cold brick wall. I peered around the corner.
At the far end of the corridor, near the old, abandoned coat check room, stood two heavily armed men wearing tactical gear. They were guarding the heavy iron door of the coat room.
The sobbing was coming from inside.
Elena and Leo weren’t in the main basement vault. They were being held in the coat check.
I didn’t have time for a prolonged firefight. I needed them out of the way immediately.
I picked up an empty, glass wine bottle from a nearby rack. I tossed it hard down the opposite corridor. It shattered with a deafening crash in the silence of the basement.
Both guards instantly raised their rifles, turning toward the sound.
“Check it,” one whispered.
As they stepped away from the door, moving toward the broken glass, I stepped out from the shadows.
Two suppressed shots. Two bodies hitting the floor before they even knew I was there.
I moved quickly, dragging them into the darkness, then approached the heavy iron door of the coat check room.
I gripped the handle. It was locked from the outside. I slid the heavy deadbolt back with a quiet click and slowly pushed the door open.
The room was pitch black.
“Elena?” I whispered into the darkness.
There was a sudden rustle of fabric.
Before I could turn on my flashlight, a small, trembling voice echoed from the corner of the room.
“Don’t come any closer.”
I clicked on my flashlight, pointing the beam at the floor to avoid blinding them.
Sitting on a pile of old winter coats was my nephew. Leo.
But he wasn’t cowering.
He was standing perfectly straight, his small hands shaking violently.
And aimed directly at my chest was a small, silver revolver.
May you like
“Leo,” I said softly, lowering my weapon immediately and raising my empty hand. “It’s okay. I’m Santiago. I’m your uncle.”
“You’re a liar,” the six-year-old cried, tears streaming down his dirty cheeks. He gripped the heavy gun with all his might. “Dr. Kane told me. He told me you’re the monster who killed my daddy.”
