Chapter 8 - Descent to the Depths
The private freight elevator descended with a low, mechanical hum, plunging us from the quiet isolation of the penthouse down into the concrete belly of the Vescari Tower.
The emergency strobe lights didn't reach down here. The underground parking garage was a cavernous, poorly lit maze of concrete pillars, oil-stained asphalt, and deep shadows cast by industrial overhead lamps.
Standing twenty yards away from the elevator doors were three of Gianni’s men, their hands resting casually near their holsters, standing guard beside the open steel medical crate resting on a wooden pallet. And right in the center of the bay, leaning against the door of his town car with a lit cigar between his fingers, stood Uncle Gianni.
The elevator doors chimed and slid open.
Matteo stepped out first, his broad shoulders squared, his left hand holding a heavy black duffel bag by the strap. I followed right behind him, keeping my steps measured, my hands tucked into the pockets of my scrubs where my fingers curled tightly around a roll of sterile gauze and a heavy metal flashlight—not a gun, but the only tool I had left.
Gianni dropped his cigar onto the concrete, grinding it out slowly beneath the heel of his polished oxfords. He broke into a wide, theatrical grin.
“Ah, the prodigal nephew returns,” Gianni called out, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming us to a family reunion. “And he brought company! How touching. Did you bring a change of clothes for the morgue, nurse?”
“The archive is in the bag, Gianni,” Matteo said, his voice cutting across the empty garage like broken glass. He stopped ten feet away from the pallet, tossing the heavy duffel bag onto the asphalt at his feet. “Leave the crate alone and walk away. This stays between you and me.”
Gianni chuckled, shaking his head. “Between you and me? My dear boy, nothing in this family is ever just between two people. You think I spent six months bribing corporate registrars and tracking down shell companies just to walk away with a bag of old files?”
Gianni stepped closer, his gray eyes glinting with a vicious, triumphant light.
“Once I take that archive, I take control of the remaining shipping trusts in the Port of Miami,” Gianni continued, gesturing toward the guards who began to fan out in a semicircle around us. “And once you’re out of the way—blamed, naturally, for an unfortunate domestic dispute with your new little girlfriend—the Vescari empire will finally be unified under someone who understands how business is actually done in this city.”
“You talk too much for a man standing in a crime scene,” Matteo said softly.
Gianni frowned, his smile faltering slightly. “What did you say?”
Before Matteo could answer, a sharp, metallic screech echoed through the lower level of the garage.
SCREEECH—BOOM.
From the main entrance ramp leading up to the street level, the heavy steel security rolling gate was violently rammed inward. Two unmarked Miami Police cruisers tore down the ramp with their sirens screaming and high beams blindingly bright, tires smoking against the concrete as they boxed in Gianni’s black SUVs before the guards could even reach their weapons.
Gianni’s face drained of all color in an instant. “What is this?!”
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“That,” Matteo said, a cold, dangerous smile touching his lips, “is Captain Marcus Vance. And unlike your private security, he doesn't take bribes from old men in expensive suits.”
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