Chapter 4 - The Surveillance Reel in Vault SevenThe rain had turned into a steady, gray deluge by the time the armored Maybach pulled up to the abandoned industrial complex on 14th Street in Manhattan.
The old red-brick brewery looked like a crumbling monument to a forgotten war. Its arched windows were boarded with iron plates, and rusted razor wire crowned the perimeter walls.
Nero sat in the back between Dante and me, his massive head resting heavily on my knee, his silver ears twitching at every distant rumble of thunder.
Marco and four heavily armed soldiers in civilian raincoats took up positions along the alleyway, their hands tucked beneath their jackets.
Dante helped me down from the high leather seat, his arm supporting my waist so I wouldn't slip on the oil-slicked cobblestones.
“Keep close to me,” he murmured, his broad frame blocking the freezing wind.
We descended a narrow flight of stone steps into the subterranean cellars beneath the old brewery. The air smelled of damp limestone, iron rust, and decades of stagnant water.
At the end of a long, vaulted corridor stood an immense steel bulkhead door, secured with three mechanical wheel locks and a heavy brass keyway stamped with the Caruso crest.
Dante inserted the silver key from his neck into the lock.
He turned it.
A heavy, pneumatic hiss echoed through the cellar as the internal pressure seals released.
Dante gripped the iron wheel, hauling the heavy door open with effortless strength.
Inside Vault Seven, the air was dry, preserved by industrial silica canisters lining the walls. Rows of steel shelving held military lockboxes, weapons crates, and green canvas binders.
At the center of the room sat a vintage magnetic tape projector, hooked to an antique cathode-ray monitor.
Beside the projector was a single, sealed metal canister labeled: BEDROOM — OCTOBER 14.
Dante picked up the canister. His fingers were perfectly steady, but the muscle in his jaw clenched with terrifying rigidity.
He threaded the magnetic tape through the projector wheels, flipped the power toggle, and stepped back beside me.
The projector whirred to life, its internal bulb casting a harsh, flickering cone of gray light onto the small screen.
The footage was grainy, taken from a high angle looking down into an opulent master bedroom with silk-draped four-poster beds.
A frail, elegant woman with dark hair lay propped against ivory pillows—Dante’s mother, Maria.
The timestamp in the corner read: 10/14/2019 — 02:14 AM.
The bedroom door opened silently.
A woman slipped inside, carrying a small porcelain tray with a steaming teacup.
She wore a dark silk robe, her platinum blonde hair pulled back in an unmistakable twist.
Not Vivienne.
Giselle Delacroix.
I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth.
On the silent monitor, Giselle approached the bed with calculated, graceful stillness. She set the teacup on the nightstand, picked up an amber medicine dropper from her pocket, and squeezed five drops of clear liquid into the tea.
She stirred it with a silver spoon.
Then she shook Maria’s shoulder gently until the older woman stirred, smiling weakly at her future daughter-in-law.
Giselle held the cup to Maria’s lips.
She watched, her expression completely calm, completely devoid of remorse, as the dying matriarch swallowed the poisoned brew.
When Maria sank back into the pillows, closing her eyes for the last time, Giselle did not call for help.
She reached down, unclasped the gold locket from Maria’s throat, and slipped it into her pocket.
The tape flickered into static.
The whirring of the projector was the only sound in the concrete vault.
Beside me, Dante stood motionless.
He didn't yell. He didn't punch the wall.
He simply reached out, his hand wrapping around the edge of the steel shelf, his grip tightening until the heavy metal grooned and warped beneath the pressure of his bare fingers.
When he finally spoke, his voice was so quiet, so devoid of human warmth, that Nero let out a soft, distressed whine and pressed against his leg.
“Five years,” Dante whispered.
He turned his head toward Marco, who stood white-faced by the vault entrance.
“Marco.”
“Yes, boss?”
“The alliance gala begins in four hours.”
Dante looked down at the reel of film, his eyes blacker than a fresh grave.
“Ensure every projection screen in the grand ballroom is connected to this reel.”
He turned to me, his gaze softening by an imperceptible fraction as he looked at my splinted arm.
“And find Miss Miller a dress.”
May you like
Marco blinked in surprise. “A dress, sir?”
“Clara is sitting to my right tonight,” Dante commanded, each word dropping like an iron hammer. “At the head of the table. In the seat reserved for the mistress of this house.”
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