Chapter 3 - The Wine Cellar
The wine cellar beneath the mansion was three hundred years old, built with heavy limestone blocks and vaulted brick ceilings. Racks of dusty, million-dollar vintages stretched into the darkness, illuminated only by dim amber wall sconces.
Victor Vance stepped down the stone stairs, his boots tapping against the flags. He looked around, his hand instinctively resting on the grip of his sidearm.
“Damian?” Victor called out, his voice echoing off the damp stone. “Marcus said you wanted me down here?”
Damian stepped out from behind a massive oak aging barrel. He was un armed, holding a glass of dark red wine.
“Sit down, Victor,” Damian said softly, gesturing to a small iron table set with two chairs.
Victor hesitated, his eyes darting around the shadows, searching for hidden guards. Finding none, he slowly sat down, his left leg stiff. “Is something wrong at the docks, son? Marcus seemed rushed.”
Damian didn't answer immediately. He took a slow sip of wine, looking at the older man. He saw the deep, exhaustion-etched lines around Victor’s eyes. He saw the slight tremor in the man’s hands—a tremor that had nothing to do with age.
Damian reached into his coat, pulled out the folded drawing, and laid it on the iron table between them.
Victor frowned. “What’s this?”
“Unfold it,” Damian said softly.
Victor reached out with trembling fingers and opened the paper. He looked at the crude yellow house, the blue man with the camera, and the green viper wrapped twice around the wrist.
Every drop of color drained from Victor’s face. His breathing hitched sharply, his throat moving as he tried to swallow.
“Damian… I…”
“Ellie Reed was hiding under the rosebush near the North Gate yesterday at four o’clock,” Damian said, his voice flat, devoid of anger, carrying only a devastating weight. “She was playing a game. She saw you turn off the red light, Victor. She saw you take the silver box from Falcone’s scout.”
Victor stared at the drawing. A single tear escaped his right eye, sliding down into his graying mustache. He closed his eyes, his shoulders collapsing inward as if an invisible mountain had just dropped onto his back.
“Kill me,” Victor whispered, his voice cracking into pieces. “Just… do it quickly, Damian. Please. Don't let my wife know what I did.”
Damian didn't reach for a gun. He sat down in the iron chair across from the man who had betrayed him.
“Why didn't you come to me, Victor?” Damian asked softly. “When Mario Falcone took Leo… why didn't you come to my office?”
Victor snapped his eyes open, staring at Damian in utter shock. “You… you know about Leo?”
“I know about the four million in gambling debts,” Damian said. “I know about the meatpacking plant in Cicero. I know about the package you received last week.”
Victor pulled his hands to his face, a jagged, heartbroken sob tearing through his chest. “They have my boy, Damian!” he cried out, no longer trying to hide the truth. “They were starving him! They sent me his finger! Mario said if I didn't give them your gate codes by tonight, they’d send me his head in a box! What was I supposed to do?! He’s my son!”
“And you were my father’s brother!” Damian shouted back, his voice finally cracking with sudden, explosive power that rattled the wine glasses on the rack. He leaned across the table, his eyes blazing. “You bled for my family! You took a shotgun blast for my father! Do you think I would have let Mario Falcone hold your son hostage for a single hour if you had trusted me?!”
Victor wept silently, his head bowed, his hands shaking violently against his knees. “I was weak… I was so scared for him, Damian… I couldn't think straight…”
Damian took a deep, steadying breath. He reached across the table, grabbed Victor by his leather lapels, and forced the older man to look him in the eye.
“Listen to me very carefully, Victor,” Damian said, his voice dropping into an absolute command. “You are going to fix this. Tonight, when Mario Falcone’s strike team arrives at the North Gate, they are going to think the codes work. They are going to think you delivered the estate on a silver platter.”
Victor blinked through his tears. “What are you going to do?”
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Damian smiled—a cold, terrifying sight that sent a chill through the ancient cellar.
“I’m going to go to Cicero myself,” Damian whispered. “I’m going to bring your son home. And then I’m going to wipe the Falcone family off the map of Chicago.”
