Chapter 8 - THE GATES OF HELLDust and debris showered down over the sacred altar as a massive circular drill bit punched completely through the cathedral ceiling, sending a cascade of rock crashing onto the stone floor.
"Fall back to defensive positions!" I roared, gesturing to my thirty capos. They scattered instantly behind the stone pillars and granite buttresses, their assault rifles locked and loaded, sights trained on the gaping hole above.
Hydraulic winches whined in the darkness overhead. A heavy steel tactical platform descended slowly through the hole, carrying a dozen heavily armored mercenaries clad in the black-and-gold uniforms of the Santoro elite.
And standing in the center of them, leaning heavily on an obsidian cane, was Don Salvatore Santoro himself.
At seventy years old, Salvatore still possessed the cold, dead eyes of a shark. A jagged scar ran from his temple down to his jawline—a souvenir from a turf war we had fought a decade ago.
"Dante," Salvatore called out, his voice gravelly and dripping with mocking amusement as his boots touched the catacomb floor. "I must admit, you are harder to exterminate than a cockroach. Burning your estate was fun, but watching you crawl down into your own grave is poetic justice."
"You should have stayed in Sicily, Salvatore," I said, stepping out from behind a granite pillar, my Sig Sauer leveled at his chest. "You stepped onto my ground. You threatened my daughter. You dug your own grave."
Salvatore laughed, a harsh, grating sound that echoed off the damp stone walls. "Your ground? Dante, this city was built on my family's blood before your grandfather even learned how to hold a pistol. And that little girl sitting on the altar?" He pointed his obsidian cane directly at Isabella. "She holds the key to the vault that contains the wealth and power of the old world. Step aside, and I might let you and your bastard child die a quick death."
"Daddy," Isabella whimpered, her hands gripping the edges of the stone altar as the silver charm glowed brighter, casting long, dancing shadows across the cavern.
"I'm right here, baby. Don't look at him," I said, my finger tightening on the trigger.
"Kill them all," Salvatore commanded, waving his hand lazily.
The Santoro mercenaries raised their assault rifles—
CRACK.
Before a single shot could be fired, a blinding flash of silver lightning shot horizontally across the catacombs. The lightning struck the center of the Santoro formation, lifting four mercenaries off their feet and slamming them violently against the stone pillars.
From the shadows of the vaulted arches, the temperature in the room plummeted instantly to freezing. Frost crept across the stone floor, locking boots in place.
Elena stepped out from the darkness, her translucent white gown trailing behind her like a shroud of mist, her eyes burning with an unearthly silver light.
"S-Salvatore..." one of the surviving mercenaries choked out, staring in absolute horror at her spectral form. "Boss... it's her. The woman from Queens."
Salvatore didn't flinch. Instead, a twisted, triumphant grin spread across his face. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a heavy, blood-stained iron dagger covered in ancient runes.
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"I've been waiting for you to show your face again, little bird," Salvatore sneered. "The blood-key isn't just for opening vaults. It's for binding ghosts."
He lunged forward with terrifying speed, driving the rune-covered dagger directly toward Elena’s chest.
