Chapter 3 - The Locked ArchiveThe Costa estate’s subterranean basement was a maze of concrete corridors, wine cellars, and high-security vaults that even senior capos were forbidden to enter without Roman’s biometric authorization.
The air down here was cold, smelling of damp stone and vintage oak. Roman walked ahead of me, a heavy iron key ring in one hand and a suppressed pistol in the other. Every muscle in his broad shoulders was coiled like a spring.
"Are your guards still at the docks with Finn?" I asked, keeping close to his shoulder as our footsteps echoed against the stone floor.
"Finn is secured in the lower container yard," Roman replied without looking back. "My security chief, Marcus, is handling him. But Vincent doesn't know we've caught the rat yet. He thinks everything is proceeding according to schedule for tonight's executive board meeting."
We stopped before a massive steel door fitted with a digital keypad and a mechanical keyhole. This was the legendary locked camera archive—the room where every security feed, wiretap recording, and covert transaction made inside or outside the Costa estate was permanently stored for leverage.
Roman punched in a twelve-digit code, pressed his thumb against the biometric scanner with a sharp beep, and turned the heavy iron key.
The vault door swung open with a hiss of pressurized air.
Inside, rows of flashing server racks hummed softly, casting a blue and green glow over the concrete walls. In the center of the room sat a single steel desk with a monitor displaying live feeds of the estate above.
Roman walked straight to a terminal, plugged a small encrypted flash drive into the USB port, and began tapping commands into the keyboard with practiced speed.
"Look at this," Roman said, gesturing for me to step closer.
I leaned over his shoulder, watching the screen. A decrypted video file began to play. It was dated three days ago, recorded from a hidden camera inside Vincent Costa’s private home office.
On the screen, Vincent Costa sat behind a mahogany desk identical to Roman’s, talking quietly to a man whose face was partially obscured by shadow.
“Once Roman signs off on the new port contracts tonight, the entire shipping lane belongs to the Moretti syndicate,” Vincent’s voice echoed from the computer speakers. “We frame the girl’s father in the historical audit, clean out the remaining loyal captains, and if Roman asks any questions during the board meeting, we eliminate him before midnight.”
The man in the shadow leaned forward, revealing his face in the dim light.
It wasn't Finn Mercer.
It was Marcus—Roman’s trusted security chief who had just gone down to the docks to interrogate Finn.
My breath caught in my throat. I grabbed Roman’s arm. "Roman... it’s Marcus. Your chief of security is working with Vincent."
Roman stopped typing. He didn't gasp. He didn't shout. His entire body simply went rigid, freezing into that terrifying, architectural stillness that preceded absolute violence.
"Marcus," Roman whispered, his voice dangerously low. "He was the one who recommended Finn for the motor pool background check."
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Before Roman could finish the sentence, the emergency lights overhead flickered from blue to blood red, and a piercing alarm shrieked through the subterranean vault.
“Warning: External perimeter breach. Security lockdown initiated.”
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