Chapter 9 - Out of the Dark
Eva sprinted down the west corridor stairs, her heart hammering like a war drum in her ears.
The mansion was deathly silent, save for the sudden, distant wail of fire alarms beginning to sound from the underground garage at the far end of the property. Shouts from off-duty security guards echoed across the distant courtyards.
The diversion had begun.
Eva reached the end of the west corridor. She grabbed the edge of the heavy seventeenth-century hunt tapestry and yanked it aside with all her strength.
Behind the fabric sat a massive, smooth sheet of brushed reinforced steel, flush with the marble wall. In the center was a digital scanner and a heavy manual brass lever.
Eva swiped Roman’s key card across the reader.
The scanner chimed twice: AUTHORIZATION CONFIRMED - WELCOME, R. BOLARO.
Eva grabbed the heavy brass lever, threw her full weight onto it, and pulled it down.
Pssssshhhhhhh!
A violent blast of pressurized air hissed from the frame as the pneumatic rubber seals collapsed. The massive six-inch-thick steel door swung slowly outward, heavy as a bank vault, revealing a pitch-black opening.
The smell that poured out was overwhelming—a suffocating wave of stale air, rubbing alcohol, and ten years of human isolation.
Eva pointed her flashlight into the room.
The panic room was small—twelve by fifteen feet. It contained a simple hospital bed, an automated toilet, a small table covered with empty plastic nutrient containers, and a wall of medical monitors that chimed softly in the dark.
Sitting on the edge of the narrow bed was an old man.
Victor Bolaro was skeletal. His long white hair hung down past his shoulders in matted strands, and his beard reached his chest. He wore a faded gray jumpsuit. His skin was translucent, so pale his blue veins showed like ink drawings beneath his cheeks.
He raised a thin, trembling hand to block the sudden glare of Eva’s flashlight, his milky blue eyes squinting in agony.
"The light..." he rasped, his voice cracking. "It hurts..."
"Victor," Eva said, dropping to her knees beside him. She adjusted the flashlight beam so it bounced off the ceiling, filling the dark vault with a soft, warm glow. "We have to go. Right now."
The old man stared at her. Up close, despite his frail, emaciated body, his eyes held the same terrifying, unyielding iron spirit that his son possessed.
"You... actually came..." Victor whispered.
Eva reached out, grab his thin arm, and helped him stand. He weighed almost nothing—his bones were light as dried wood. He gasped as his feet hit the cold floor, his legs shuddering under the sudden weight after a decade of confinement.
"The ledger," Eva reminded him urgently. "Where is it?"
Victor pointed a bony finger toward the floor plate beneath the air filtration unit.
Eva rushed over, pulled back the rusted metal cover, and lifted out a heavy, water-tight black steel document case. It was bound with a combination padlock.
"The key..." Victor gasped, pulling a thin silver chain from beneath his jumpsuit. A small brass key hung from the link.
Eva grabbed the key, unlocked the steel case, and popped the latches.
Inside lay three leather-bound books filled with handwritten transaction numbers, bank account codes, corporate signatures, and recorded dates—the complete, undeniable criminal history of Roman Bolaro’s empire.
Eva closed the case, looped its shoulder strap over her body, and threw Victor’s frail arm over her shoulder.
"Hold on to me," she commanded.
Together, the young maid and the half-dead mafia kingpin shuffled slowly out of the steel box and into the west corridor.
As they passed through the arched gallery toward the service exit, a voice boomed from the grand staircase above them.
"EVA!"
Eva stopped, turning her head slowly upward.
Standing on the landing of the grand marble staircase, bathed in the flickering red glow of the emergency fire lights, was Roman Bolaro.
He wore a dark silk robe, his hair disheveled, a heavy black automatic pistol held firmly in his right hand. His face was a mask of sheer, unadulterated shock and terrifying fury.
He wasn't looking at Eva.
He was looking at the white-haired ghost standing beside her.
"Father..." Roman breathed, his voice stripped of all its corporate polish, returning to the raw, street-bred violence of his youth.
Victor Bolaro stood taller, leaning his weight against Eva’s shoulder. He raised his pale, sunken eyes to look at his son.
May you like
A slow, terrifying, toothless smile spread across the old man's face.
"Hello, Roman," Victor rasped, his voice echoing through the grand hall like a judgment from the grave. "You forgot... to check... the pipes."
