Chapter 8 - Midnight in the Service Bay
The private subterranean garage beneath the Duca estate smelled of stale motor oil, damp concrete, and old gasoline.
The emergency fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a low, irritating electrical hum, casting sickly green-tinted shadows across the concrete pillars and the empty stalls where the wrecked Maserati had once been towed away.
Lorenzo sat in the darkness of the far corner, half-concealed behind a tall rack of spare tires. He wore dark clothes, his breathing slow, deep, and measured. In his right hand, he held a heavy Sig Sauer P226 pistol, the metal cold and comforting against his palm.
Click.
The heavy steel fire door leading from the exterior staircase pushed open with a microscopic groan of ungreased hinges.
A shadow slipped inside.
Low, deliberate footsteps. The quiet scuff of combat boots against concrete.
Damian Cole moved like a ghost. He wore a matte-black tactical turtleneck and cargo pants, his hands wrapped around a suppressed tactical carbine. He didn't turn on a flashlight; his eyes were already adjusted to the gloom, scanning the dark corners of the garage with ruthless efficiency.
Damian walked toward the center stall—the exact spot where Lorenzo’s car had been parked six weeks ago.
He stopped, staring down at the oil stain on the floor where the Maserati had bled out. A low, humorless chuckle escaped Damian’s lips.
"Stupid bastard," Damian muttered to himself, his voice echoing softly off the concrete walls. "Should've stayed at the bottom of the ocean."
"You missed a spot," a voice rasped out from the darkness.
Damian spun around instantly, bringing the barrel of his carbine up in a lightning-fast arc, scanning the shadows. "Who's there? Show yourself!"
The overhead fluorescent light directly above the tire rack flickered once, twice, and then buzzed to life, casting a harsh, blinding glare over Lorenzo as he stepped out from behind the pillar.
Damian froze. The color drained entirely from his face, his eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated terror as if he were staring face-to-face with a creature risen straight from the grave.
"L-Lorenzo?" Damian stammered, his finger tightening convulsively on the trigger of his carbine. "No... no, that's impossible. The medical reports... the spinal damage... you were blind!"
"Doctors make mistakes, Damian," Lorenzo said, taking a slow, steady step forward. The Sig Sauer in his hand remained level, aimed squarely at the center of Damian’s chest. "Especially when they're paid to write whatever my brother tells them to write."
Damian’s chest heaved, his breathing turning ragged as panic overtook his military training. "You set me up. This whole thing... it was a trap."
"You tried to kill me, Damian," Lorenzo said, his voice dropping into a lethal, quiet whisper that echoed like thunder in the concrete tomb. "You cut my brakes. You almost sent me into the freezing dark. And worse than that... you brought a war to my home."
Damian’s face twisted in desperate rage. He jerked the barrel of the carbine up to fire—
Crack.
Lorenzo’s pistol spoke once.
A single, deafening gunshot tore through the subterranean garage.
Damian dropped his weapon, letting out a sharp gasp as his right shoulder exploded in a bloom of crimson. He stumbled backward, slamming hard against the concrete pillar before sliding down into a heap on the oil-stained floor, clutching his bleeding arm and groaning in agony.
May you like
Lorenzo walked forward, standing over him, his shadow falling across Damian’s terrified face. He slowly lowered the barrel of his pistol, pressing it against the cold concrete right beside Damian’s ear.
"You're going to federal prison for the rest of your natural life, Damian," Lorenzo said, his voice cold as winter ice. "And every single day you spend in that cage, you'll remember that you tried to kill a man who was already watching your every move."
