Chapter 13 - The Ghost of the River
The white silk of my wedding dress lay discarded on our bedroom floor, replaced by dark tactical cargo pants, sturdy combat boots, and a black Kevlar vest Luca had forced me into before we left the mansion.
I refused to stay behind. My father was the only man who knew the internal layout of that subterranean structure, and I wasn't going to let him go into that dark pit without me.
Three black armored SUVs tore through the misty streets of Chicago, cutting through the industrial wastelands bordering the south branch of the Chicago River. The rain began to fall in heavy, rhythmic sheets, hammering against the reinforced glass.
"Stay behind me at all times, Clara," Luca said in the backseat beside me, checking the chamber of his customized semi-automatic handgun with a practiced, lethal efficiency. "No heroics. No chasing shadows. If I tell you to drop, you drop."
I looked at him, seeing the terrifying mafia boss the entire underworld dreaded—yet his left hand reached out, intertwining his fingers with mine, squeezing tightly. His platinum wedding band felt cold against my skin, but his grip was fiercely protective.
"I won't leave your side," I answered steadily. "Just remember, my father built the labyrinth. Whatever is down there, you need us to navigate it."
The vehicles slid to a stop inside the rusted chain-link gates of the abandoned meatpacking complex. The towering brick structure looked like a hulking corpse rotting under the city rain, broken windows glaring down at us like hollow eye sockets.
Dominic stepped out first, followed by half a dozen Moretti soldiers carrying tactical rifles equipped with suppressors and flashlights.
"Padlocks were cut with an industrial torch," Dominic reported, pointing his flashlight at the severed chains dangling from the main hangar doors. "They got here no more than twenty minutes ahead of us."
"Keep the perimeter sealed," Luca commanded, his voice cold as winter ice. "Shoot anyone who tries to exit. Dominic, Clara, Arthur—with me."
We moved into the cavernous darkness of the abandoned plant. The air was thick with mildew, rust, and the faint, unmistakable smell of freshly ignited ozone and burnt iron.
My father led the way with a tactical flashlight, his footsteps surprisingly steady despite his age. He brought us past the rusted meat hooks hanging from ceiling rails to the far corner of the subterranean floor.
There, rising out of the cracked concrete like a monolith, stood Pillar Seven.
Around the base of the massive concrete column, the sixty tons of reinforced slab Arthur had poured decades ago had been systematically drilled and blown apart with shaped industrial charges.
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A freshly exposed steel hatch hung wide open, leading down into a pitch-black abyss.
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