Chapter 5 - Midnight in the ArchiveThe grandfather clock in the third-floor corridor struck midnight with a dull, echoing chime that sounded like a funeral bell.
I pressed my back against the cold stone wall, holding my breath. My fingers gripped the small black key Victor had given me, slick with nervous sweat. Down the hall, the muffled sound of low voices and heavy laughter drifted up from the downstairs parlor where Victor’s capos were smoking cigars and drinking whiskey.
Marcus Vance was down there with them. Or at least, I prayed to God he was.
With stealthy, cat-like steps, I crept down the dimly lit hallway until I reached the heavy mahogany door marked ARCHIVE.
My hands shook violently as I pushed the key into the antique brass lock. It turned with a soft, ominous click. I slipped inside, closing the door behind me with agonizing slowness, and clicked on a small penlight.
The archive room smelled of old paper, leather bindings, and expensive cigar smoke. Tall oak bookshelves lined the walls, and in the center sat Marcus’s private mahogany desk, illuminated faintly by the moonlight filtering through the high Gothic windows.
There it was. A heavy leather-bound ledger resting right in the middle of the desk, beside a locked brass filing cabinet.
I rushed forward, dropping to my knees in front of the filing cabinet. I tried the key Victor had given me—the master archive key—and prayed it would work on the secondary lock.
Click.
The drawer slid open silently. Inside lay stacks of manila folders labeled with code names: Operation Hermes, Project Goliath, Syndicate 88.
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I flipped rapidly through the files until I found it—a thick, handwritten ledger with a crimson ribbon bookmark. I pulled it out, flipped to page forty-four, and gasped.
Names, bank account numbers, Swiss routing codes, and the signature of Marcus Vance alongside the logo of the Chicago Outfit—the rival syndicate.
Marcus wasn't just leaking information. He was selling Victor’s entire empire out from under him.
My hands trembled as I pulled out the burner phone Victor had given me. I switched on the camera, framing page forty-four in the lens, and tapped the screen to snap a photo.
Flash.
The sudden, blinding burst of white light illuminated the dark archive room like a bolt of lightning.
Panic seized my chest. Stupid! I forgot to turn off the flash!
"Well, well, well," a cold, mocking voice drawled from the doorway.
I froze, the blood draining completely from my face.
I slowly turned my head. Standing in the doorway, blocking my only exit, was Marcus Vance. His holster was unsnapped, and a terrifying, crooked grin twisted his scarred face.
"Playing detective, little mouse?" Marcus chuckled darkly, stepping into the room and drawing his heavy nickel-plated Beretta. "I always wondered why the boss suddenly brought a stray into his penthouse. Looks like Victor’s new pet has a nasty habit of digging in the trash."
I scrambled backward, dropping the ledger onto the floor. "Marcus... I—I was just cleaning—"
"Save it for the coroner," Marcus snarled, raising the barrel of the gun directly toward my forehead. "Tell you what... I’ll make it quick. Just like the warehouse manager. Then I’ll leave your little body right here in Victor’s private archive, and let the boss try to explain why his favorite maid got caught stealing classified intel."
He cocked the gun. The metallic click echoed like thunder in the silent room.
I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face, whispering Tommy's name in my final, desperate prayer.
Bang.
The gunshot deafened the room.
I squeezed my eyes shut, bracing for the burning agony of a bullet tearing through my skull.
One second passed. Two seconds. Three seconds.
I didn't feel pain. Instead, I heard a heavy, sickening thud hit the hardwood floor right beside me, followed by the clatter of metal sliding across the room.
Slowly, terrifyingly, I opened my eyes.
Marcus Vance wasn't standing anymore. He was lying flat on his back, his eyes wide, lifeless, and staring blankly up at the ceiling. A single, perfect bullet hole was drilled right between his eyes, blood pooling rapidly across the Persian rug.
Standing in the doorway, shrouded in the darkness of the corridor with wisps of smoke still curling lazily from the barrel of a custom-engraved Sig Sauer, was Victor Russo.
His face was a mask of icy, terrifying fury.
May you like
He slowly lowered his weapon, stepped over Marcus’s corpse, and looked down at me as I cowered on the floor, shaking from head to toe.
"I told you, Elena," Victor’s voice was a chilling whisper as he offered me his hand. "In this house, rule-breakers pay a steep price. But traitors... traitors bleed."
