Chapter 3 - The Drainage Tunnels of St. Mary's
St. Mary’s Cemetery sprawled across three rolling hills on the northern edge of Lexington, its ancient stone angels and moss-covered headstones shrouded in a dense, creeping morning fog.
Sylvio’s convoy of black sedans pulled up silently along the rusted iron fence line. The doors opened in unison, and armed men in dark coats fanned out across the grounds with military precision.
Sylvio stepped out into the damp chill, holding the door for Luna, who clutched a heavy wool trench coat Vincent had hastily tailored for her small frame.
“Show me,” Sylvio said softly, taking her small hand in his large, calloused one.
Luna led them past the towering marble monument of the Romano family vault, winding down a narrow, overgrown dirt path toward the boundary wall where the old brick drainage culvert emptied into a concrete runoff ditch.
Sure enough, the heavy iron grating covering the drainage pipe had been forced open. Fresh boot prints marred the muddy clay beneath it.
“He’s down there,” Luna whispered, peering into the dark, echoing maw of the brick tunnel. “I smell diesel fuel and expensive tobacco. The same smell he had under the bridge.”
Sylvio signaled to Vincent and Marcus. Two men stepped forward with tactical flashlights, their suppressed pistols raised.
“Boss, let us clear it first,” Vincent urged, stepping in front of Sylvio.
“No,” Sylvio said, his voice flat. “This is between Tony and me. Stay close, but give us room.”
Sylvio drew his own 9mm Beretta, clicking off the safety with a sharp click that echoed in the damp air. He looked down at Luna. “Wait here with Marcus. Do not move from this spot.”
“Be careful,” she murmured, her dark eyes wide with sudden worry.
Sylvio gave her a rare, reassuring nod, then ducked his head and stepped into the subterranean darkness of the drainage tunnel, his men falling in behind him like shadows.
The tunnel smelled of stagnant water, wet rust, and the unmistakable aroma of imported Turkish tobacco—the exact brand Tony Duca had smoked since they were boys on the docks.
They moved in absolute silence for two hundred yards, the beam of the flashlights cutting through swirling plumes of mist. The brick walls gave way to a larger subterranean chamber—an old storm cistern that had been converted into a makeshift hideout.
In the center of the chamber stood a table covered in topographic maps, shipping manifests, and a glowing laptop screen.
Standing beside it, holding a glass of amber scotch, was a man with silver-streaked brown hair and a sharp, cruel smile.
On the back of his left hand, illuminated by the computer screen, was a jagged, unmistakable white scar.
“Sylvio,” Tony Duca said, his voice echoing off the curved brick ceiling without a trace of surprise. “I wondered when you’d figure it out. Though I must admit, I’m disappointed it took a homeless rat to save your life.”
Sylvio stepped out of the shadow of the tunnel entrance, his pistol locked dead onto the center of Tony’s chest.
“You’ve gotten sloppy, Tony,” Sylvio said, his voice trembling with a rage he had kept locked in ice for fifteen years. “Hiding in a sewer like the rat you always were.”
Tony took a slow sip of his scotch, setting the glass down on the map-covered table. “A sewer? No, my old friend. This is command central. With Dominic running my port logistics and your inner circle compromised, I was going to own this city by the end of the month. You were just supposed to eat the osso buco and quietly die of heart failure, like an old dog.”
“Where is Dominic?” Sylvio demanded, his finger tightening slightly on the trigger.
“Gone,” Tony laughed softly. “Already on a flight to South America with three million dollars of your cash. By the time your men catch up to him, he’ll be sipping margaritas on a beach while you lie in a pine box.”
Tony’s hand twitched toward his holster hidden beneath his designer jacket.
He was fast. But Sylvio was faster.
Before Tony’s fingers could close around the grip of his gun, a muffled thump echoed through the cistern.
Tony gasped, his eyes flying wide as a bullet tore through his right shoulder, spinning him around and slamming him hard against the brick wall. His pistol clattered uselessly onto the concrete floor.
Vincent stepped out from behind Sylvio, lowering his smoking, suppressed weapon.
Sylvio walked slowly toward his former brother, stopping two feet away as Tony slid down the wall, clutching his bloody shoulder, groaning in pain.
“You always were impatient, Tony,” Sylvio said coldly, pressing the barrel of his Beretta against Tony’s forehead.
“Do it,” Tony spat, blood staining his teeth as he forced a bitter, defiant grin. “Kill me. But Dominic is already gone. Your empire is bleeding from the inside out. You’ve already lost.”
Sylvio didn't pull the trigger. Instead, he lowered his gun an inch, looking down at the man who had tried to murder him twice.
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“You think my empire depends on money, Tony?” Sylvio asked quietly. “You think a few stolen millions can break what I’ve built?”
He gestured to Vincent. “Cuff him. Drag him up to the sunlight. We’re going to have a family reunion.”
