Chapter 3 - In the Dark
Down in the main armory corridor, the red emergency lights flickered and died, leaving the sprawling lower level wrapped in a tomb-like blackness.
Elio Vieira pressed his back against the reinforced steel door of the backup vault, his breathing ragged and shallow. Blood soaked through the dark fabric of his tailored shirt, pooling warm against his shoulder where a Santoro bullet had torn through muscle and bone. He held his service pistol tightly in his good hand, listening to the heavy combat boots of two professional killers closing in on his position.
He was trapped, out-gunned, and running out of blood.
For the first time in his ruthless, calculated life, Elio felt a sharp pang of profound regret. Not because he was dying, but because of how he had spent his final months. He had spent them pushing away the only pure thing he had ever been given. He had treated Janevra like a captive ornament, too arrogant to realize that behind her quiet, elegant facade lay the fierce, unyielding spirit of a true survivor.
I called her a sheltered girl, Elio thought bitterly, gripping his pistol as the footsteps stopped just outside the doorway. And now she’s upstairs, entirely defenseless, walking into a slaughterhouse because of me.
“Come out, Elio,” a harsh, raspy voice mocked from the darkness outside. It was Marco Santoro, the head of the strike team. “Your guards are dead. Your empire is burning. Let’s end this like men.”
Elio didn’t answer. He clicked off the safety of his pistol, preparing to empty his remaining magazine into the doorway the second it opened.
Suddenly, a sharp clack echoed from the far end of the dark corridor.
Bang!
A gunshot cracked through the blackness, followed immediately by a sharp cry of pain, the heavy thud of a body hitting the marble floor, and a frantic shout in Italian.
Marco Santoro froze, spinning around in confusion. “What the hell was that?! Who’s back there? Sweep the perimeter!”
From the shadows near the service corridor, a cool, steady voice cut through the tension—a voice Elio recognized instantly, sending a violent jolt of shock straight through his veins.
“Looking for someone, gentlemen?”
It was Janevra.
Before the remaining Santoro guard could pivot toward the sound, two rapid gunshots flashed in the darkness. The assassin dropped like a stone.
“Janevra?!” Elio yelled out, abandoning all caution as he pushed off the wall, stumbling out of the armory doorway. “Are you out of your mind?! Get out of here!”
“Shut up, Elio, or you’ll give away our position,” Janevra’s voice snapped back, sharp and authoritative, ringing out from the shadows a few yards away.
Marco Santoro snarled, raising his weapon toward the direction of her voice. “Ah, the trophy bride! Perfect. Kill the bitch and bring me Elio’s head!”
Footsteps lunged forward through the dark. Elio tried to push off the wall to intercept him, but his wounded shoulder buckled beneath him, sending him crashing to the floor.
Bang! Bang!
Two rapid gunshots tore through the air. A heavy, agonizing groan echoed down the hall, followed by the clatter of a rifle hitting the floor.
Silence descended upon the corridor once more, broken only by the sound of heavy, ragged breathing.
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A soft click echoed, and a small tactical flashlight beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the scene. Marco Santoro lay motionless on the floor, neutralised. Standing over him, holding Bruno’s Glock with both hands braced and steady, was Janevra. Her hair was messy, her silk shawl stained with dust, and her dark eyes burned with an icy, lethal fire that belonged to a mafia queen.
She lowered the gun, clicked off the flashlight, and walked straight toward Elio as he slumped against the corridor wall.
