Chapter 5 - The Wrath of the Ghost
The sound of the lock opening was tiny—no louder than a dry twig snapping underfoot.
On the far side of the room, one of the mercenaries—a scar-faced brute named Viktor—stopped shuffling the deck of cards. He tilted his head, his yellowed teeth showing in a slight frown.
"Did you hear that?" Viktor asked his two companions, setting the cards down.
"Hear what? It's the wind outside," the second guard grunted, taking a long swig from the whiskey bottle.
"No," Viktor insisted, pulling a heavy brass knuckles from his pocket and slipping it onto his right hand. "I'm checking the chains."
Viktor stood up, his heavy boots clacking against the concrete as he walked toward the central pillar.
He rounded the stone archway.
The chains lay piled in a heavy, silent coil on the concrete floor.
The pillar was empty.
Viktor’s eyes widened in sudden, shock-filled horror. "What the—"
He never finished the sentence.
Out of the pitch-black shadow above him, Damiano descended like a striking phantom.
Damiano’s bare left hand shot forward, grabbing Viktor by his throat with terrifying, superhuman force, crushing his windpipe instantly. Before the giant could scream, Damiano’s right hand whipped the heavy iron padlock around, slamming it directly into Viktor’s temple with the weight of a sledgehammer.
CRACK.
Viktor’s eyes rolled back, and his massive two-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame collapsed onto the dirt floor like a felled oak tree.
Before the body even hit the ground, Damiano reached down, pulled Viktor’s silenced 9mm pistol from its holster, and stepped out into the center of the vault.
The remaining two guards were just standing up from their crates, their weapons half-drawn, their faces pale with shock.
THWIP. THWIP.
Two suppressed gunshots echoed through the damp subterranean space—short, precise, and lethal.
Both mercenaries slumped backward over the card table, their weapons clattering uselessly against the concrete, dead before they realized the war had even begun.
Silence returned to the wine vault.
Damiano stood in the center of the room, breathing slowly, deeply, filling his lungs with air for the first time in four hours. Blood dripped down his cheek onto his torn collar, but his hands—his bare, un-gloved hands—were perfectly steady.
He turned toward the massive oak wine barrel.
"Lina," Damiano called out gently, his voice dropping its deadly edge, turning into something soft and warm. "You can come out now."
A tiny head peeked out from behind the barrel. Lina looked at the three unconscious men on the floor, then looked up at Damiano. She saw no monster. She saw only Signor Damiano, standing tall, holding a shiny metal thing.
She ran out from behind the barrel, her tiny feet flying across the concrete, and threw her arms tightly around his right leg, pressing her forehead against his knee just as she did every afternoon at the top of the stairs.
Damiano stood frozen for a second.
Then, slowly, deliberately, the dangerous crime boss dropped the gun onto a wooden crate. He knelt down on both knees in the dirt, his bare, bloodied hands reaching out, gently scooping the small three-year-old girl into his arms, holding her safe against his chest.
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For the first time in eleven years, Damiano Falcone wept. Silent, heavy tears spilled from his eyes, washing away the blood on his cheeks as he held the child who had saved his life.
"Thank you, Piccolina," Damiano whispered into her dark hair. "Thank you."
