Chapter 5 - Box 404
At 5:14 a.m., the Old South Loop Vaults building stood like a dark limestone fortress against the graying dawn sky. Built in the 1920s, the private depository boasted foot-thick steel doors and analog security systems that modern hackers couldn't breach—which was precisely why Evelyn Hayes had chosen it to safeguard her life insurance policy.
Roman parked two blocks away in the shadows of a parking structure. Carrying Clara wrapped securely within his coat, he moved swiftly through the alleyways, arriving at the side service entrance just as the streetlights abruptly flickered and died. Dante had executed the blackout with absolute precision; the entire city block went pitch black, cutting off the building’s alarm transmitters and digital camera feeds for a three-minute window before backup generators could kick in.
Roman used a heavy titanium bypass tool on the lock of the service door, slipping inside with Clara. The air inside the subterranean depository was bone-dry, smelling of brass polish and aged paper. Roman navigated the darkened corridors with a tactical penlight shielded between his fingers.
They reached the lower vault level. Row upon row of polished brass safety deposit boxes stretched toward the ceiling. Roman scanned the numbers until he found it: Box 404.
He pulled the small brass key Clara had carried inside Rosalind from his pocket and inserted it into the right-hand lock. With a crisp mechanical click, the tumbler turned. Roman pulled open the narrow metal drawer.
Inside lay a heavy manila envelope and a high-resolution microfiche roll. Roman broke the seal of the envelope. Inside were dozens of certified shipping manifests, customs declarations bearing Salvatore Marchetti's personal wax seal, and a stack of crisp, glossy photographs.
The first photograph made Roman's breath catch in his throat.
It was a surveillance photo taken outside a warehouse on Calumet Avenue three days ago. It showed Evelyn Hayes, her hands tied behind her back, being forced into the back of an unmarked van by Salvatore Marchetti himself.
She wasn't dead. Salvatore hadn't executed her yet.
Roman flipped to the handwritten letter attached to the back of the photograph. It was written in Evelyn’s elegant, flowing script:
""Salvatore didn't kill me immediately because he couldn't find the original negative strips containing the bank accounts. He thinks I hid them at my studio. When he realizes they are gone, he will kill me at the Calumet docks warehouse where the overseas smuggling shipments depart. Roman, if you are reading this, I am still alive, but time is running out. Protect Clara. She is the only light I have left in this dark world.""
Roman felt a small hand touch his sleeve. Clara was looking up at the photograph in his hand. Her lip quivered, but she fought back her tears with astonishing bravery.
""That's Mama,"" Clara whispered, pointing her small finger at the picture. ""She looks tired, Roman. Is she waiting for us?""
Roman dropped to one knee, looking Clara directly in her eyes. He placed his hand over hers. ""Yes, Clara. She is waiting for us. And I give you my word on the Viscari name: we are going to bring her home.""
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The backup generators hummed to life overhead, the fluorescent tubes flickering back on with a low electric buzz. Roman took the evidence, locked the empty box, and lifted Clara into his arms.
""Dante,"" Roman spoke into his radio as they exited the building into the biting morning chill. ""Cancel the defensive perimeter. Mobilize every soldier who ever swore an oath to my father and Marco. We are taking the Calumet docks.""
