Chapter 6 - The Vault at Midnight
The rain had turned to slush by the time the three-car convoy of black armored Suburbans cut through the deserted streets of downtown Chicago.
Snowplows cleared the avenues, their yellow lights flashing against dark skyscrapers. The city was asleep, unaware of the shadow war raging through its grandest avenues.
Inside the middle Suburban, Emily sat beside Dominic.
Lily and Grace had been left at the estate under the protection of thirty heavily armed guards and Dr. Vance inside the subterranean panic vault. The girls had refused to let Emily leave until she promised to return in time to make them grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch.
"You don't have to do this, Emily," Dominic said softly, breaking the quiet inside the leather cabin. He was looking at her, holding a clean linen handkerchief, gently wiping a streak of black soot from her cheek.
His touch was surprisingly delicate for hands that had taken lives less than an hour ago.
"My mother lived in fear her whole life, Dominic," Emily said, looking into his dark, mesmerizing eyes. "She died in a state-run nursing home because we couldn't afford better care. If this ledger can stop Rostova from hurting anyone else... I want it opened."
Dominic studied her face for a long moment. "Your mother raised a warrior."
"She raised a nurse," Emily corrected with a faint, bittersweet smile. "We fix things."
"Sometimes," Dominic murmured, his thumb trailing down to cup her jawline, "fixing things requires tearing down the infection first."
The convoy pulled into the underground executive garage of the First Chicago Bank building on LaSalle Street.
The bank president, a terrified man in a trench coat over pajamas, was already waiting by the private elevator. Dominic had woken him up fifteen minutes ago with a phone call that left no room for negotiation.
"D-Don Dominic," the bank president stammered, his keycard trembling in his hand. "The private vault floor is cleared as requested. No security staff present."
"Good," Dominic said, his hand resting on the small of Emily’s back as they stepped into the elevator. "Keep it that way."
Deep beneath LaSalle Street, the subterranean vault smelled of cold steel, polished brass, and old paper. Heavy safety deposit boxes lined the walls from floor to ceiling.
Emily walked down Row 400, searching for the number stamped on the back of her mother’s silver key.
Box 412.
She stopped before a modest brass locker.
Her hands shook as she inserted the tiny silver key into the lock. It turned with a crisp, heavy CLICK.
The heavy brass door swung open.
Inside sat a thick, leather-bound diary and a modern, military-grade encrypted silver flash drive.
Emily pulled the diary out. The cover was worn, the pages yellowed. On the first page, written in her mother’s elegant handwriting, were the words:
If you are reading this, Emily... I am dead, and the shadows have found you. I am so sorry.
Tears welled in Emily’s eyes. She clutched the book to her chest.
Dominic picked up the silver flash drive. He plugged it into a rugged tactical laptop Marcus carried.
After thirty seconds of automated decryption, files began flooding the screen.
Names. Routing numbers. Off-shore bank accounts in Zurich and the Cayman Islands. Video files.
And at the top of the index sat a master folder labeled: ROSTOVA HUMAN TRAFFICKING & POLITICAL EXTORTION NETWORK.
Marcus gasped. "Jesus, Don Dominic... this isn't just a ledger. This contains names of three federal judges, the deputy chief of police, two U.S. Senators, and half the Bratva leadership in North America."
Dominic’s eyes scanned the data, his expression becoming terrifyingly calm. "This is Viktor Rostova's entire lifeline. Without this data, his political protectors will abandon him in an hour. With it, he goes to federal prison for five hundred years."
"Then give it to the feds!" Emily said urgently.
"No," Dominic said coldly. "The feds have three men on this list. If I give it to them now, the files will disappear, and Rostova will walk."
He looked at Emily.
"We use this data to drag Rostova into the open tonight."
Before Dominic could close the laptop, a cold, smooth voice echoed from the vaulted doorway behind them.
"How remarkably predictable, Dominic."
Emily spun around.
Standing at the entrance of the vault, flanked by six men holding suppressed submachine guns, was a tall man in an immaculate white cashmere coat. He had sharp, aristocratic features, silver hair, and eyes as cold and dead as a winter grave.
Viktor Rostova.
May you like
Beside him stood the bank president, a bullet hole through his forehead, his body crumpling onto the cold marble floor.
"Hello, Miss Parker," Rostova said, a chilling smile spreading across his face. "You look just like your mother."
