The mafia boss’s fiancée ordered me to throw away his father’s old Army jacket, but when Luca saw what fell from the pocket, he stopped the entire engagement dinner…

"They’re already inside," Dominic muttered, aiming his rifle down the dark vertical shaft. A metal spiral staircase wound down into the subterranean earth.

"Arthur, what’s down there?" Luca asked quietly, his eyes scanning the gloom.

"A sub-basement bunker," my father whispered. "Two rooms. A blast door in between. If they breached the concrete, they’re trying to crack the vault."

"Let's move," Luca commanded.

He went first, moving with fluid, deadly grace down the iron steps. Dominic followed, then my father, and I brought up the rear, my heart hammering against my ribs. The temperature dropped significantly as we descended three stories below ground level into a humid, moldy concrete corridor.

The air smelled of fresh gunpowder and cigar smoke.

Ahead of us, a heavy iron blast door sat slightly ajar. Weak amber emergency lighting flickered from inside the room beyond.

Luca signaled for a halt with a raised fist. He pressed his back against the damp concrete wall, peering through the gap in the heavy door with his weapon raised.

Suddenly, a voice echoed from within the chamber. It was deep, raspy, and carried the unmistakable cadence of an old-world aristocrat who had spent decades living in the shadows.

"You're late, Luca," the voice called out mockingly. "Just like your father was late thirty-four years ago."

Luca didn't flinch. "Show yourself. You trespass on Moretti territory, you die in it."

A dry, wheezing chuckle rattled through the room. "Is that what Vito taught you? How quaint. But your father always lacked vision. He thought putting a bullet in my ribs and burying this vault in concrete would silence the truth."

A shadow moved within the doorway. Luca swung around the corner, aiming dead center, but before he could squeeze the trigger, a thunderous crack shattered the subterranean silence.

A high-caliber bullet ripped straight through the thick reinforced glass of an old observation window inside the vault, missing Luca’s head by a fraction of an inch and embedding itself into the wall behind him.

"Ambush!" Dominic yelled, opening fire through the doorway.

The narrow tunnel exploded into chaos. The muzzle flashes illuminated shadowy figures moving behind tactical barricades inside the vault. Concrete dust choked the air as ricochets whined off the iron walls.

Luca grabbed my arm, shoving me behind the reinforced jamb of the blast door, using his own broad torso as a human shield while returning disciplined, deadly fire.

Two enemy shooters dropped to the floor, but through the haze of smoke, I caught a glimpse of an older man in an immaculate charcoal overcoat, clutching a heavy leather briefcase. He stepped toward an auxiliary tunnel at the rear of the vault.

"He's escaping through the old railway line!" Arthur shouted from behind us. "There’s an egress to the freight tunnels!"

The older man paused at the edge of the dark tunnel, turning back just enough for the flickering emergency lights to catch his face. He had a deep, jagged scar running from his ear down his throat, and cold, pale eyes that burned with venomous triumph.

He raised two fingers to his temple in a mock salute, tossed something small and metallic onto the floor, and disappeared into the darkness.

"Hold fire!" Luca roared as the remaining enemy mercenaries retreated down the auxiliary shaft.

Dominic ran forward to secure the room, while Luca held me tight against him, his breathing heavy, his hands checking my arms and shoulders. "Are you hit? Clara, look at me. Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," I gasped, my ears ringing from the deafening gunfire. "I'm okay, Luca. Look."

I pointed toward the floor near the entrance of the rear tunnel.

Lying in a pool of dust and spent brass casings was the object the scarred man had tossed: a heavy, black chess piece carved from polished obsidian.