"Because your anonymous client sent you into a kill box. They knew the vault would seal the instant I moved on these servers—and they sent you in anyway. They considered you expendable. I do not."
She fully turns around. The multi-tool hangs loosely from her fingers. "You expect me to believe you care about my safety? You're the one holding me hostage."
"I am preserving your life."
"By locking me in a steel box."
"By keeping you off the board." I step toward the center of the room. The amber emergency lights cast long, distorted shadowsacross the floor. "The Costa family has been at war with the Bellanti family since I was a boy. It is a war fought with bullets, extortion, and digital manipulation.
The money on these servers funds their operations. Weapons. Hitmen. Bribes. By touching the data, you stepped onto the battlefield. There are no civilians on the battlefield. Only targets."
She absorbs the information. Her mind works rapidly. Sorting the data. Categorizing the threat. She is the first person who does not overwhelm my processing power. She enhances it.
"So," she says slowly. "You're a Costa."
"Yes."
"And you just blew up the Bellanti bank."
"Yes."
"Which makes us targets."
"Which makes you a target if you leave this vault. "The Bellantis monitor the power grid in this sector—I mapped their alert protocol before I came down here. The sudden blackout will trigger it. A strike team will be dispatched to investigate the disruption." If we are outside those steel doors when they arrive, we will be engaged in a firefight. I am heavily armed. You are wearing a sweater."
She looks down at her clothing. The absurdity of the situation catches her. A short, breathless laugh escapes her throat. It is a beautiful sound. Rich and warm. It lands deep in my chest.
"Right. Okay. Mafia war. Strike teams. Subterranean vault." She runs a hand through her hair. The strands are dark, thick, curling at the ends. "I really should have asked for half upfront."
The humor is a defense mechanism. I recognize the tactic. I use silence. She uses sarcasm. We are both hiding behind our respective armors. But her armor is cracking. The reality of the sixty-thousand-dollar theft presses down on her. The reality of the locked door.
I reach into the tactical vest under my jacket—the one she has not clocked yet. My fingers brush the cold metal of spare magazines. I bypass the weapons. I pull out a secured satellite communication device. It is dead. The thick steel of the vault blocks all incoming and outgoing frequencies.
I toss the device onto a nearby metal table. It lands with a dead thud.
"No signal." I confirm her worst fear.
She stares at the dead device. Then she stares at me.
"So what is the plan, Costa?" She uses my name like a challenge. "We just sit here in the dark until we starve? Or until your battery-powered emergency lights die and we suffocate?"
"The vault has a passive ventilation system drawing air from the surface under normal conditions. If the Bellantis trigger the purge protocol, that changes. The emergency lights run on an independent solid-state battery array with a seventy-two-hour reserve. We will not be in the dark."
"That doesn't answer the question about starving."
"I have field rations in the gear I brought down. Enough for four days."
"Four days." She repeats the timeframe. It settles over her. Ninety-six hours trapped in a concrete box.
"The plan is containment until the Bellantis force the next variable. If they trigger the purge protocol, we move." I hold her gaze. The static in my eyes meets the rich brown of hers.
"We wait. The Bellanti strike team will arrive. They will find the vault sealed. They cannot breach four feet of reinforced steel without breaching charges. They will secure the perimeter. They will try to hack the access terminal. They will fail. Then they will go for the environmental controls. My brothers track the same grid I do—a blackout at this node flags on their board too. Eventually the Bellantis leave, or my brothers intercept them."
Brothers. The word feels strange in my mouth. I have not spoken to Dante or Matteo in months. I have not sat at the Sunday dinner table in eight years. I am a ghost in my own family. A lethal shadow deployed to handle the digital bleeding of the war.
But now, standing in this vault, I am hyper-aware of my physical form. The solid weight of my boots on the concrete. The steady rhythm of my lungs. The heat radiating from her skin twenty feet away.
She crosses the room and sits on a shipping crate. She pulls her knees toward her chest. A protective posture. She is small. Vulnerable. And yet, she commands the entire space.
