Chapter 5 - The Shadow at the Gate
The descent into the lower cellars was cold and smelled of damp limestone. Adrian walked ahead of his men, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his charcoal overcoat, his tailored leather shoes making no sound against the flagstones.
In the center of the subterranean chamber, tied firmly to a bolted cast-iron chair beneath a single swinging halogen bulb, sat Dante.
His face was bruised, a split lip leaking a thin trail of dark crimson down his stubbled chin. He wasn't screaming. Men in their profession knew that screaming only wasted precious oxygen.
"Adrian," Dante croaked, spitting blood onto the stone floor. "You’ve lost your goddamn mind. You bring harbor dogs to jump me in my own gatehouse? What is this?"
Adrian didn't answer immediately. He walked over to an old oak worktable, pulled out the velvet bundle, and set the two crystal glasses side by side under the harsh yellow light.
One glass was crystal clear, its base etched with a faint crescent scratch that caught the glare.
The other glass was polished to perfection, its rim faintly cloudy under ultraviolet inspection.
"You like Waterford, Dante?" Adrian asked conversationally.
Dante’s eyes flicked to the table, then quickly back to Adrian’s face. A micro-expression—a twitch of the eyelid, a slight tightening of the jaw—betrayed him for half a second. But to a predator like Adrian, half a second was an eternity.
"I don't know what the hell you're talking about," Dante said, his voice dropping in pitch. "I protect this house. I protected your old man."
"My father is dead," Adrian said, stepping closer until his face was inches from Dante’s. "And you survived the ambush that killed him in Milan. I always wondered how the shooters knew which car he was riding in. The decoy convoy had three identical black sedans."
Dante went perfectly still.
"You told me it was bad luck," Adrian whispered. "You told me they had a drone in the sky. But today, a seven-year-old girl told me you were in my dining room twenty minutes before I came home. You told her you were checking the terrace doors. But the terrace doors lock from the inside automatically at four o’clock."
Adrian pulled a nine-millimeter pistol from his holster, racked the slide with a clean, metallic *clack*, and rested the cold muzzle against Dante’s forehead.
"Who paid you, Dante? Was it the Valenti family? Or was it someone sitting at my own Sunday dinner table?"
Dante’s breathing turned ragged. He looked into Adrian’s eyes and saw no mercy, only the cold, unyielding abyss of a man who had already decided his fate.
"You think you're untouchable, Adrian," Dante hissed, a bloody grin stretching his lips. "You think you rule this city. But you’re already a ghost. They’re inside the perimeter right now. The glass was just supposed to make it quiet. But since you didn't drink... they’re coming through the front door."
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Before Dante could finish the sentence, the estate’s primary power grid cut out with a deafening thud, plunging the entire mansion into pitch-black darkness.
***
