Chapter 8 - The Underworld's Vault
Brenda stared at the heavy brass keys in her trembling hand, the cold metal biting sharply into her palm.
She looked up at the man she had mocked just an hour ago, remembering how she had cruelly judged his worn coat and scuffed boots.
She then looked at the terrified little girl crying softly into the shoulder of the brave waitress Brenda had constantly threatened to fire.
A profound, sickening wave of shame washed over the arrogant manager, completely shattering the superficial armor she had worn for years.
Without a single word, Brenda held out her hand and dropped the heavy ring of keys directly into Salvatore's waiting palm.
"There is a reinforced wine cellar three levels down, built like a bank vault from the prohibition era," she whispered, tears ruining her expensive makeup.
Salvatore nodded respectfully, silently acknowledging her choice to finally stand on the right side of humanity.
He led them swiftly down a narrow, hidden spiral staircase made of damp stone, descending deep into the silent belly of the historic building.
The chaotic sounds of the violent search party above grew muffled and distant, replaced by the heavy silence of the underground catacombs.
They reached a massive, steel vault door covered in a layer of dust, an ancient relic of a much more violent time in Chicago's history.
Salvatore quickly located the correct brass key, sliding it into the heavy locking mechanism and turning it with a loud, satisfying click.
He grabbed the massive iron wheel, using all his remaining strength to pull the heavy steel door open on its well-oiled hinges.
The interior of the vault was not a dusty cellar, but a luxurious, brightly lit panic room lined with leather chairs and expensive scotch.
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Sitting completely relaxed in the center of the room, casually swirling a glass of amber liquid, was Vincenzo.
He raised a suppressed pistol with a cruel smile, aiming the weapon directly at the center of Salvatore's chest.
