But when the fire came, you risked everything for a scullery maid and an old woman in the gutter.
You forgot what power costs.”
“I forgot nothing,” Vincent replied.
Below them, Marcus Vance’s laughter abruptly ceased.
The detonator in the senator’s hand had blown the subterranean access corridors, effectively sealing every emergency exit into an airtight tomb.
Through the drifting dust, Vance shouted toward the ceiling, his voice distorted through the PA system: “Take the boy, Matteo!
Shoot the girl where she breathes!
The digital master key is on his drive—bring it down to the rotunda!”
Emma scrambled to her feet, her gaze flashing between Matteo’s gun and the yawning drop behind them.
Her pulse hammered behind her temples, yet deep within her chest, the raw survival instinct that had kept her alive on Chicago’s south side surged to life.
She reached into her waist pocket, her fingers closing tightly around the heavy, steel-encased military flashbang she had stripped from the dune safehouse tactical locker.
Matteo saw the shift in her shoulders.
“Don’t do it, little girl,” he sneered, shifting his aim directly toward her forehead.
“She won’t have to,” Vincent murmured.
Before Matteo could process the statement, Vincent didn’t lunge forward; he stepped backward, driving his shoulder straight into the weakened balustrade.
The already-cracked marble gave way with an explosive crack.
At that exact split-second, Emma pulled the pin and hurled the cylindrical canister directly at Matteo’s boots.
A blinding white flash illuminated the mezzanine in a violent strobe of silent lightning, followed instantly by a thunderous, ear-splitting report that ruptured the balance of every man in the corridor.
The mercenary squad cried out, clutching their eyes and ears as equilibrium dissolved into nausea.
Chapter 53 – Through the Broken Hall
The ballroom was a war zone draped in silk and gold leaf.
The high society elite of Illinois crawled on their knees, diamond necklaces torn across broken stemware, tuxedos coated in gray soot.
Through the haze, Senator Vance’s private security detail moved inward, weapons drawn, executing a containment sweep that had nothing to do with protection and everything to do with eliminating witnesses.
Vincent pushed himself up from the ruined velvet fabric, his shoulder throbbing from the impact.
Without missing a beat, he extended his hand to Emma, pulling her to her feet with steady, unyielding strength.
“Can you run?” he asked, inspecting her face for shrapnel wounds.
“I can run,” Emma breathed, wiping a streak of soot from her cheek.
Her jaw was set, her brown eyes blazing with an uncharacteristic defiance.
“Where do we go?
The exits are blocked.”
“Vance didn’t seal the ballroom to trap us,” Vincent said grimly, scanning the cavernous room as muzzle flashes flickered near the grand entrance.
“He sealed it to trap the media and the donor class until he can dictate the narrative.
But this building was an old municipal bank before it was converted into the civic hall.
The vault beneath the service kitchen still connects to the old Chicago freight tunnels.”
“The freight tunnels?”
Emma echoed.
“The coal lines from the nineteen hundreds?”
“Abandoned for fifty years,” Vincent confirmed.
“And known to fewer than three living people.”
A bullet struck the marble column six inches from Vincent’s temple, spraying sharp chips of stone.
Across the floor, Vance himself was retreating toward the rear security annex, escorted by four heavily armed mercenaries, clutching the briefcase that held the digital duplicate of the federal indictment files.
“Moretti!” a voice snarled from above.
Matteo had already recovered, leaning over the shattered mezzanine railing, his face contorted in fury, blood dripping from his nose where the flashbang had ruptured his capillaries.
He leveled his rifle, tracking Vincent’s path.
“You don’t walk out of here alive!”
“Keep moving,” Vincent ordered Emma, stepping deliberately between her and Matteo’s line of sight.
They sprinted toward the kitchen swinging doors, weaving through the overturned banquet tables and abandoned floral displays.
Behind them, automatic fire hammered the mahogany tables into kindling.
A waiter who had been hiding behind an ice sculpture scrambled in panic, tripping Emma’s stride.
Vincent caught her around the waist, lifting her over the sprawling bodies and kicking open the heavy stainless-steel double doors leading into the industrial kitchen.
Inside, the industrial burners were still lit, boiling pots of soup hissing violently as vibrations continued to ripple through the floorboards.
The kitchen staff had vanished, having fled through the loading docks before Vance’s men sealed the gates.
“The freezer,” Vincent pointed toward an enormous walk-in cooler lined with riveted steel.
“Behind the storage racks.”
Emma pushed past the hanging sides of beef, the air turning bone-chilling cold in an instant.
Her breath plumed in white clouds as Vincent threw his weight against a heavy shelving unit laden with canned goods.
