Chapter 7 - The Lower Depths
The descent into the basement of the hospital felt like dropping into the underworld. The clean, sterile smell of the upper floors vanished, replaced by the damp, heavy odor of concrete, rust, and industrial oil. The red emergency lights were fewer down here, leaving vast pockets of absolute darkness between the flickering bulbs.
Nicholas moved with increasing stability, his legendary stamina returning as the adrenaline burned the remaining sedatives out of his system. He held his gun lowered but ready, his eyes scanning every junction of the old pipe systems overhead.
"The maintenance tunnels connect to the old city sewer line," Nicholas whispered as we reached the bottom of the stairs. "My father built them sixty years ago as an escape route during the first syndicate war. Leo knows about them, but he doesn't know the layout."
We crept through a long, narrow corridor lined with massive steam pipes that hissed violently in the dark. At the end of the hall, a heavy iron door stood slightly ajar, a bright sliver of yellow light cutting through the gloom.
From inside the room came the sound of a wet, heavy blow, followed by a low groan of agony.
"I'll ask you one more time, Matteo," a voice sneered. It was Marco, Leo’s top lieutenant—the man who had stood outside Room 412 just last night pretending to be an exhausted guard. "Where are the secondary encryption keys for the offshore accounts? Leo needs them before the midnight vote."
"Go... screw yourself, Marco," Matteo’s voice cracked, thick with blood and defiance. "The boss... will tear your tongue out for this."
"The boss is a vegetable in a bed upstairs, you idiot," Marco laughed, the sound echoing off the concrete walls. "He’s probably already dead. Mercer was supposed to clean up the mess twenty minutes ago."
Nicholas looked at me in the dark, his expression completely blank, but his eyes burned with a terrifying, white-hot fury. He held up three fingers, counting down.
Three. Two. One.
Nicholas didn't kick the door; he threw his shoulder into it, the heavy iron structure slamming open with a deafening clang.
Marco and two other men inside the room spun around in shock, but they were completely unprepared for the specter that stood before them. Nicholas Castiglione, the dead king, stood in the doorway, his weapon raised, his face a mask of righteous execution.
Pfft. Pfft. Pfft.
The gunfire was rhythmic, precise, and instantaneous. The two enforcers standing near Matteo’s chair dropped to the floor before they could even draw their weapons. Marco tried to dive behind a heavy metal control panel, but Nicholas fired a fourth shot that caught him directly in the shoulder, spinning him around and crashing him into the wall.
Nicholas walked into the room, his boots clicking on the blood-slicked concrete. He stopped over Marco, who was clutching his bleeding shoulder, his eyes wide with a horrific, mind-shattering terror.
"N-Nicholas..." Marco stammered, his face turning gray. "It was Leo... Leo forced me... please..."
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"You guarded my room for three months, Marco," Nicholas said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. "You watched my nurse read to me. And you sold my life for a percentage. There is no negotiation for that."
Without another word, Nicholas pulled the trigger.
