Chapter 5 - A Sister in the Line of Fire
The concussive boom of an explosive breach tore through the upper floors of the bank, sending plaster dust drifting down from the concrete vault ceiling like fine gray ash.
“They used shaped C4 on the main lobby doors,” Dominic stated with terrifying, unnatural calm, checking the tactical video feeds on his encrypted phone. “Henri knows the vault was accessed. He mobilized his private security battalion from the docks.”
“They want to destroy these ledgers,” I said, clutching the leather case containing Isabella’s documents against my chest.
“They want to destroy everything inside this building,” Dominic corrected, unholstering a suppressed 9mm Beretta from his shoulder rig and racking the slide with a crisp, lethal snap. “Henri cannot afford to let a single page of this evidence reach the High Council.”
He turned to Tonio Rossi. “Uncle, there is a secondary escape tunnel behind the safe-deposit lockers. It connects to the old Roman drainage system that empties out into the commercial marina behind the fish market. Matteo has an armored boat waiting at slip fourteen.”
“I am not leaving you, Dominic,” Tonio said firmly, raising his wooden walking stick like a quarterstaff. “I held your father’s rifle during the 1982 dock war. I can still pull a trigger.”
“You have to protect Sylvie and these ledgers, Uncle,” Dominic commanded softly, placing a large, scarred hand on the old orchardist’s shoulder. “If this evidence dies tonight, my mother’s truth dies with it. Take Sylvie through the tunnel. Get to the marina. I will hold the central stairwell and funnel them into the subterranean lobby.”
“No, Dominic!” I protested, grabbing his forearm, feeling the rock-hard muscle beneath his tailored sleeve. “You can’t fight twenty mercenaries alone in a concrete basement!”
Dominic looked down at me. The harsh fluorescent light reflected in his obsidian eyes, but beneath the terrifying predatory mask of the mafia don, I saw a profound, scorching warmth that took my breath away.
He reached up, his thumb gently brushing across my cheekbone.
“I fought thirty men in the alleys of Naples when I was nineteen, Sylvie,” he whispered, his voice vibrating with an ancient, unyielding power. “I am not dying in a bank vault. Not when your sister is waiting for her medicine in Corte. Take Tonio. Go.”
He pulled a compact Glock 43 from his tactical vest, checked the magazine, and pressed it into my hands.
“Safety is off. Two hands. Center mass. Don’t hesitate.”
Before I could answer, he turned, sprinted down the vaulted corridor, and vanished into the darkness of the central stairwell.
A second later, the subterranean level erupted into a deafening storm of automatic gunfire, echoing like rolling thunder off the marble and stone.
“Come, child!” Tonio urged, pulling on my arm.
He walked to the rear of Vault *404*, reached behind a row of empty steel deposit boxes, and hauled open a concealed iron grate. Behind it lay a narrow, stone-lined tunnel that smelled of sea salt, damp moss, and ancient stone.
I clutched the leather case holding Isabella’s ledgers in my left arm, the Glock gripped tightly in my right hand, and followed the seventy-nine-year-old orchardist into the dark.
The tunnel was barely four feet wide. Water dripped from the ceiling, puddling around our boots as we moved rapidly through the subterranean labyrinth beneath Bastia. Above us, the muffled detonations of grenades and the sharp reports of Dominic’s Beretta shook the bedrock.
After five agonizing minutes, we reached an iron ladder ascending toward a round maintenance hatch.
Tonio climbed with surprising agility, pushing the heavy iron grate open.
Cold, torrential rain lashed against my face as we climbed out onto the slick wooden planks of the commercial marina behind the historic fish market. The sea was thrashing violently, black waves crashing against the stone seawall, tossing fishing trawlers against their moorings.
At slip fourteen, idling quietly in the shadows of the packing house, was Dominic’s armored tactical boat—a forty-foot, carbon-fiber interceptor with twin high-output outboards.
Standing on the deck was Matteo, holding an assault rifle, scanning the perimeter.
“Miss Sylvie! Maestro Tonio!” Matteo called out, lowering the boarding ladder. “Get aboard! The boss engaged their lead team in the vault—he’s clearing the service exit now!”
Just as my boots touched the deck of the boat, my cellphone buzzed violently inside my coat pocket.
The screen lit up with an incoming video call from an unlisted number.
My thumb swiped the screen.
The image resolved:
Sitting in the sterile, brightly lit private room of the Saint-Antoine Clinic in Corte was Camille De Winter.
Her scarlet gown was ruined, her hair disheveled, but her face was twisted into a triumphant, venomous sneer.
Standing beside her was an armed enforcer in a medical orderly’s uniform.
And lying in the hospital bed behind them, pale, struggling to draw breath through an oxygen mask, was my fourteen-year-old sister, Clara.
The enforcer was holding an intravenous syringe loaded with a cloudy, amber liquid, its needle hovering inches from Clara’s medication port.
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“Looking for your little sister, Sylvie?” Camille’s voice purred through the speaker, dripping with pure, psychopathic malice. “Tell Dominic that if he presents those ledgers to the High Council at sunrise, Clara receives twenty milliliters of concentrated thallium sulfate directly into her central line.”
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