Chapter 8 - FLAMES AT ST. AGNESThe sirens wailed in the distance as Damian’s Mercedes tore through the rain-slicked streets of Brooklyn, running red lights and weaving between traffic lanes with reckless abandon. In the back seat, Sofia was safely strapped into a temporary car seat Marco had scavenged, fast asleep despite the chaos.
Elena stared out the window, watching the decaying brick facade of St. Agnes Hospital loom larger out of the fog. The massive, aging structure looked like a haunted monument against the midnight sky. Most of the building had been decommissioned years ago, but the basement archives and neonatal records room remained locked under city seal.
Or so they thought.
As the car screeched to a halt in front of the ambulance bay, Elena saw thick plumes of black smoke pouring from the second-floor windows of the north wing.
"He's burning the entire archive," Elena breathed, horrified. "All the proof... gone."
"Not yet," Damian said, killing the engine and drawing his sidearm. He turned to Marco, who had pulled up behind them in the SUV with four heavily armed guards. "Marco, secure the perimeter. Cut the power grid to the north wing so the fire suppression systems dump CO2 instead of letting the fire consume the physical vaults. Move!"
Damian grabbed Elena’s hand before she could open her door. He looked deep into her eyes, his expression fierce and unyielding.
"Stay behind me, Elena. Whatever happens inside those walls, do not let go of my hand."
Elena nodded, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She wasn't just a waitress anymore. She was a mother fighting for the truth of her child's existence.
They breached the heavy metal service doors of the hospital basement, the acrid smell of burning paper and melting plastic stinging their eyes and throats. The emergency lights cast an eerie, flashing red glow down the endless, sterile hallways.
Footsteps echoed ahead of them—heavy, hurried boots clanking against the linoleum floor.
"This way," Damian whispered, leading her down the corridor toward the central archive room.
The door to the archive was blown wide open, the reinforced steel lock blasted off its hinges by a thermal charge. Inside, papers were strewn everywhere across the floor, and a pile of burning files blazed in the center of the room.
Standing by the back filing cabinet, frantically stuffing documents into a leather briefcase, was Viktor Caruso.
He looked up as Damian and Elena stepped through the blasted doorway, a manic, desperate grin twisting his features.
"You're too late, nephew!" Viktor laughed, coughing slightly from the smoke. "The digital files at your house were just the bait. This—this is the real graveyard of your little family secret."
Damian raised his gun, pointing it squarely at Viktor’s chest. "Drop the briefcase, Viktor. It’s over."
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Viktor didn't drop the briefcase. Instead, he reached into his jacket, pulled out a detonator with a flashing red light, and pressed his thumb against the trigger.
"If I go down," Viktor screamed, his eyes wild with madness, "St. Agnes goes up with me—and takes every trace of your bastard child to hell!"
