Chapter 3 - The Broken Seal
The screech of tearing metal was loud enough to wake the dead, but the storm outside buried the sound beneath a blanket of thunder. Lev worked with the desperate, muscle-straining fury of a man who knew his own life hung in the balance. The hydraulic jack groaned, its steel teeth biting into the frame of the vault door, forcing the massive hinges to buckle under thousands of pounds of pressure.
With a deafening crack, the upper hinge sheared off, sending a metal rivet flying across the room like a bullet. The door sagged forward, leaving a three-inch gap of pure, black emptiness.
The air that rushed out of the gap was foul, cold, and heavy with the scent of dehydration.
I didn't wait for Lev to clear the lower frame. I wedged my fingers into the gap, my muscles tearing against the sharp edges of the steel as I pulled with everything I had. The door groaned, shifting just enough for a man of my build to slip through the opening.
I fell into the darkness of the vault, my flashlight beam cutting through the gloom.
Mia Carter lay on the concrete floor, her body curled into a tight ball against the back wall. Her skin was translucent, her lips cracked and bleeding, and her fingernails were completely gone, reduced to raw, red stumps from three days of clawing at the reinforced steel. She was clutching a dirty dish towel against her chest, her eyes half-open but unfocused as the bright light hit her face.
I knelt beside her, lifting her head onto my knee. She felt cold, dangerously cold, her breath coming in tiny, ragged gasps that barely moved the fabric of her uniform.
"Mia," I muttered, pressing my water flask against her cracked lips. "Drink. Slowly."
She swallowed convulsively, coughing as the water hit her throat. Her hand—the raw, bleeding fingers—reached up, blindly catching the lapel of my coat.
"Mr... Mr. Aleandro," she rasped, her voice nothing more than a dry rattle. "Harper... is she... did they..."
"Harper is safe. She’s upstairs with Nico," I said, my hand resting on her forehead to check her temperature. She was burning up despite the cold room. Sepsis or severe dehydration pneumonia was setting in. "Who did this to you, Mia?"
She closed her eyes, a single tear cutting through the dust on her cheek. "Miss Victoria... she had a book. A black book from your father’s old desk. I saw her taking pictures of the names... the shipping routes in Palermo. She saw me looking."
"And Victor?" I asked, the name feeling like a piece of glass in my throat.
"He was there," she whispered, her fingers tightening on my coat with a sudden, desperate strength. "He told her to put me in the ground. He said... he said you were supposed to die in Sicily, Mr. Aleandro. He said the hit on your car in Palermo was already paid for. When you came back alive tonight... they realized the hit failed. They were going to clear the house tomorrow morning."
The pieces of the puzzle fell into place with a sickening, heavy thud. The sudden ambush in Palermo four days ago—the one I had survived only because my driver had noticed the tripwire on the mountain road—hadn't been an attack by the Lucchese family. It had been orchestrated from within my own study. By my brother. By my bride.
"Lev," I called out, my voice dangerously calm as I stood up, lifting Mia’s fragile body into my arms. "Get the house doctor down here. Tell him if she isn't stable by dawn, I will personally revoke his license and his life. Then call the outer perimeter guards. Tell them we are under code black."
"Boss," Lev whispered, looking at the darkness of the stairs behind us. "Mr. Romano’s car just cleared the main gate. Miss Victoria is with him."
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I looked down at the bleeding woman in my arms, then up toward the light of the foyer.
"Let them come," I said softly. "The family is finally home."
