Chapter 6 - The Secret in the Cellar
The guest suite on the third floor was larger than any home I had ever lived in, furnished with antique mahogany, thick Persian rugs, and an expansive balcony overlooking the snow-covered forest. But the heavy iron bolts on the double doors reminded me that this luxury was merely a very expensive cage.
For three days, the manor remained on high alert. Heavily armed patrols marched the grounds every two hours, and the low hum of encrypted satellite phones echoed through the corridors. Rosa spent every afternoon in my suite, teaching me the private family signs she and her late husband had developed decades ago—a dialect known to no outside interpreter.
Through those quiet sessions, the true history of the Vitale family emerged.
My husband Matteo was not a monster, Rosa signed one afternoon, pouring hot tea from a porcelain pot. He built this organization to protect immigrant families who had no voice in Chicago. But when he died, the syndicate became infected with greed. Dante has spent five years trying to wash the blood from our family name, moving our capital into legitimate shipping, green logistics, and housing.
And Vance wanted to stop him? I signed back.
Vance represents the old families, Rosa signed, her expression darkening with sorrow. Men who profit from extortion, human misery, and narcotics. They know that if Dante turns our empire clean, their dirty revenue streams will dry up forever. But there is someone worse behind Vance. Someone inside our bloodline.
Before I could ask who, a knock sounded at the door. Marco entered, bowing respectfully. "Miss Callahan. The Boss requests your presence in the lower cellar. Immediately."
My stomach plummeted. "Why does he need me in the cellar?"
"Mr. Vance has finally agreed to talk," Marco said quietly. "But he refuses to speak to Dante. He claims he will only communicate through someone who is not a Vitale soldier. The Boss wants you to interpret his statements."
Fifteen minutes later, I stood in the damp, freezing expanse of the limestone cellar beneath the manor. The air smelled of old wine, iron, and damp earth. In the center of the room, tied to a heavy wooden chair under a single hanging lightbulb, sat Julian Vance. His tailored suit was torn, his lip split, and his face bruised, but his eyes burned with bitter, desperate defiance.
Dante stood in the shadows just outside the ring of light, his trench coat open, watching Vance like a hawk studying a trapped rodent.
"Tell her," Dante commanded from the dark.
Vance looked up at me, spitting blood onto the concrete floor. A grotesque, mocking grin spread across his battered face. "Well, well. The little deaf-whisperer from the cheap Italian joint. You think you're saving him, girl? You think Dante is the king?"
"State what you told me ten minutes ago, Julian," Dante warned, his voice a low, terrifying growl. "Or we take your fingers one by one."
Vance’s grin faded into a look of genuine terror. He turned his bloodshot eyes back to me. "Tell the Boss that the shipments at the docks weren't the real target. The federal raid was just a distraction to pull his security away from the city."
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"Who gave the order, Julian?" I demanded, finding my voice in the cold subterranean air.
Vance leaned forward as far as his ropes allowed, his voice dropping into a ragged, venomous hiss. "His uncle. Salvatore Vitale. He crossed the border from Canada two nights ago. He’s already in Chicago, and he didn't come to take over the business. He came to take Dante’s mother."
