Chapter 5 - The Archive Vault
The heavy iron door of the west gallery safe stood wide open.
Sparks showered from the locking mechanism where a portable plasma cutter had burned through three inches of reinforced titanium. Piles of gray ash and melted metal littered the Persian rug.
Dante burst into the archive room, his weapon raised, scanning the dark corners.
The room was empty.
On the massive mahogany table in the center of the gallery sat three open leather-bound ledgers—the original records detailing thirty years of syndicate operations, wire transfers, and political payoffs.
Standing beside the table, looking through a stack of digital backup drives, was a man Dante hadn't seen in five years.
Julian Vance.
Vance was a former federal prosecutor who had mysteriously vanished after an internal corruption scandal—a scandal Dante had quietly helped orchestrate to protect his own interests. Vance’s hair was grayer now, his suit expensive but slightly dusty, and a cold, triumphant smile played across his thin lips as he slipped a thumb drive into his coat pocket.
“Hello, Dante,” Vance said smoothly, not even bothering to raise his hands. “It’hab been a long time.”
“Julian,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a lethal register. “I thought the DOJ buried you in a witness protection program in Montana.”
“Witness protection is so dreadfully dull,” Vance laughed softly, turning to face him. “Especially when there’s an entire empire ripe for the taking. Marco was weak—he lacked vision. He wanted to run a city. I want to run the coast.”
“You’re standing in my house, Julian,” Dante said, taking a slow step forward, the barrel of his gun locked onto Vance’s chest. “You aren't walking out of here.”
“I wouldn't be so sure about that,” Vance replied, pulling a small black remote from his pocket with two fingers. A small digital screen blinked with a red LED light. “The west wing is wired with twenty pounds of C-4. One press of this button, and this entire gallery—along with every incriminating ledger your family ever accumulated—goes up in smoke. And trust me, Dante... you won't survive the collapse.”
Dante froze. He looked at the remote, then up at Vance’s cold, unyielding eyes.
“You’d destroy your own evidence?” Dante asked.
“I have copies of everything on secure servers in Zurich,” Vance smiled. “All I need is the destruction of the Moretti dynasty. With you dead, and your archives turned to ash, the vacuum will swallow your territories in a week.”
Dante’s finger rested on the trigger. He could kill Vance right now. He had the shot. But if Vance’s thumb twitched on the detonator...
“Drop the remote, Julian.”
“I don't think so,” Vance said, his thumb tightening over the button. “Goodbye, Dante.”
Before Vance could depress the trigger, a small, distinct sound echoed from the dark doorway behind him.
Clack.
Rocco stood in the doorway, holding a 12-gauge tactical shotgun, the barrel leveled dead at Vance’s head.
“Drop it, asshole,” Rocco growled.
Vance hesitated, his eyes darting between Dante and Rocco. In that split second of distraction, Dante moved with blinding speed. He lunged forward, slamming the butt of his pistol directly into Vance’s wrist.
The remote flew from Vance’s hand, spinning across the hardwood floor.
Dante followed up with a vicious right hook that caught Vance square on the jaw, lifting the former prosecutor off his feet and crashing him hard into the mahogany bookshelf. Vance slumped unconscious to the floor, bleeding from a split lip.
Rocco rushed forward, kicking the remote away and slapping steel handcuffs onto Vance’s wrists. He checked the digital screen.
“Frequency locked and disabled,” Rocco breathed a sigh of relief, looking up at Dante. “That was entirely too close, boss.”
Dante didn't answer immediately. He picked up the remote, crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, and looked down at the open ledgers.
“Secure the archives,” Dante ordered, his voice cold and steady. “And get Vance down to the holding cells. I want him awake in ten minutes.”
As Rocco dragged the unconscious prosecutor out of the gallery, Dante walked over to the window, looking out toward the dark, mist-covered lawn. The immediate threat was neutralized, but a cold realization settled into his chest.
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Santori was still out there. The Boston syndicate was still watching. And as long as he lived in a world of blood and ledgers, anyone associated with him—anyone who stepped foot inside his home—was a target.
Especially a three-year-old girl with a red crayon.
