Chapter 11 - into the catacombs
The air grew frigid as Dominic, Sofia, and Emma moved deeper into the underground tunnels beneath the Moretti mansion.
Dominic led the way, holding a tactical flashlight in his left hand and his heavy pistol in his right. The beams of light cut through the thick dust rising from the recent explosions.
Sofia kept close behind him, holding Emma wrapped tightly in her coat. The small girl had her face buried in her mother's shoulder, still clutching Daisy.
"Dominic," Sofia whispered, her voice echoing off the rough-hewn stone walls. "What did Frank mean about your family tree?"
Dominic’s face was set in stone. "He was trying to mess with my head. My father was the sole head of the Moretti crime family."
"Is that why your mother’s death certificate was signed by a private doctor paid by the syndicate?" Sofia asked softly.
Dominic stopped in his tracks, turning to look at her. "How do you know that?"
"Julian kept copies of hospital records," Sofia revealed, her voice steady. "Your mother didn't die in a hospital, Dominic. She vanished from a private facility in upstate New York two days before her funeral."
Dominic’s chest burned with a mixture of rage and grief. Everything he had believed about his life, his family, and his empire was turning out to be a carefully constructed lie.
"We're here," Dominic said, shining his flashlight on a massive iron door at the end of the corridor.
The door was reinforced with heavy steel rivets and had a complex mechanical combination lock. Above the frame, painted in fading white letters, was the inscription: ARCHIVE 4.
The lock had been battered by the recent explosion overhead, but the iron door remained sealed shut. Beside the heavy mechanical tumbler was a tiny, intricate silver keyhole.
Dominic reached into his pocket and pulled out the silver key tied with the blue ribbon that Charles had taken from Emma—the key Dominic had recovered from Charles’s desk before the estate fell into chaos.
He inserted the key into the lock and turned it.
A loud, heavy mechanical click echoed through the dark tunnel. The iron door slowly creaked open, revealing a dusty room filled with wooden crates, old filing cabinets, and a single metal desk in the center.
Dominic stepped inside, sweeping his flashlight across the space.
Resting on top of the desk was a thick, leather-bound book with silver corners.
Elena’s journal.
Dominic approached the desk slowly, his heart hammering against his ribs. He reached out and opened the cover.
Inside, in his late wife’s delicate handwriting, was an entry dated October 13th—the night before her death:
*If anyone reads this, Dominic has already lost everything. The bomb isn't meant for him. It's meant for me because I found the truth about his mother. She didn't die. She is running the Founders from Chicago’s South Side.*
Dominic stared at the page, unable to breathe.
Then, a quiet, cold voice spoke from the shadows behind them in the dark room.
May you like
"She always was too smart for her own good, wasn't she?"
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