Chapter 6 - Whispers of the Poisoned Don
The underground catacombs beneath Saint Jude’s Basilica were damp, dark, and filled with the scent of ancient stone and decay. Torches flickered along the stone corridors as Vincent, Claret, and four of Vincent’s most trusted bodyguards navigated the subterranean maze.
Salvatore was carried behind them on a specialized medical gurney, hooked up to portable oxygen. Time was running out fast. The monitors showed his heart rate spiking erratically. He had less than twelve hours left.
As they reached a massive iron door embedded directly into the bedrock, Vincent held up his hand, signaling the group to stop. The door was covered in ancient Sicilian runes and modern digital lock mechanisms—a strange blend of old-world mysticism and modern security.
"This is it," Vincent said, shining his flashlight on the center of the door. There was a bronze plate shaped like a howling wolf—the emblem of the Vela clan. "The acoustic sensors are calibrated to the exact resonance of the mountain dialect spoken by the direct descendants of the Vela family."
Claret stepped up to the massive door. She placed her warm palm against the icy bronze wolf plate. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, visualizing her Nona Katarina teaching her the cadence of their ancestral tongue by the warmth of their small apartment kitchen.
She spoke clearly into the bronze plate, her voice echoing off the ancient stone walls:
"Me silliness Katacena Deania Sango! A presenza chjudi—la porta si grapi pî ditti di lu sangu!" (Listen to the blood of Katarina! Let the doors open for the fingers of the bloodline!)
For three agonized seconds, nothing happened.
Then, a deep, mechanical hum reverberated through the bedrock. Heavy iron bolts slid back inside the walls with a series of loud, metallic clangs. The massive iron doors slowly swung inward, revealing a hidden chamber bathed in a soft, golden light.
Inside the chamber sat rows of locked steel trunks, vintage leather-bound ledgers, and at the center of the room, a glass pedestal holding an ancient silver vial filled with a glowing, blue liquid—the Vela antidote.
"It worked..." Vincent breathed, looking at Claret with profound admiration. "You did it, Claret."
"Hold it right there!" a harsh, familiar voice bellowed from the shadows behind them.
Claret and Vincent spun around. Out from the dark corridors stepped Lorenzo, the family underboss, accompanied by ten heavily armed mercenaries. Lorenzo was holding a smoking pistol, and two of Vincent’s bodyguards fell to the stone floor, mortally wounded.
"Lorenzo," Vincent hissed, stepping in front of Claret and drawing his weapon. "You traitored us."
May you like
Lorenzo chuckled, a sickening, oily laugh. "Traitor? No, Vincent. I’m a businessman. Salvatore was old and weak. He was soft. I poisoned his wine three days ago, knowing he’d die before he could give you the keys to the empire."
Lorenzo stepped into the light, his pistol pointed directly at Vincent’s chest. "I followed you here so you could open the vault for me. Now, the Vela wealth is mine. The syndicate is mine. And all of you die in this hole."
