Chapter 4 - The Cellar
The stairs leading down to the north cellar were narrow, steep, and carved directly from the bedrock beneath the foundation. The air grew colder with every step, heavy with the smell of damp limestone, ancient dust, and old iron.
Marco shoved Victor down the last three steps. Victor hit the dirt floor with a heavy thud, his hands still bound tightly behind him.
Dominic walked down the corridor, his leather shoes making no sound against the stone. He stopped in front of the heavy oak door at the end of the passageway. The door was reinforced with iron bands and secured with a massive brass padlock—the twin to the key Dominic held in his fingers.
Dominic slid the notched key into the keyhole.
Click.
The heavy iron bolt slid back smoothly. The lock hadn't rusted; it had been oiled recently.
Dominic pushed the door open.
Inside, the cellar was bright. Modern, high-intensity LED strip lights had been strung along the ancient vaulted ceiling, plugged into a heavy-duty portable generator humming quietly in the corner.
The room was not empty.
Racks of wooden wine crates had been cleared away. In their place sat three heavy steel shipping cases—the kind used by high-end security firms to transport bullion or cash. Beside the cases sat a desk covered in computer monitors, high-speed document scanners, and satellite communication equipment.
Dominic walked over to the first steel shipping case and flipped the heavy latches.
He lifted the lid.
Inside sat rows of neatly stacked, vacuum-sealed bricks of cash. But these weren't hundred-dollar bills. They were bundles of hundred-euro notes, stack after stack, bearing the stamp of European central banks.
Dominic picked up one bundle and weighed it in his hand.
“Three million euros per box,” Dominic said softly. “Nine million euros total.”
He turned around to face Victor.
“My family doesn't trade in euros, Victor,” Dominic said. “The Moretti syndicate works in US dollars and local real estate. The only family in New York that deals in European currency transfers is the Bellandi crime syndicate.”
Victor lay on the floor, his face pressed against the cold dirt, refusing to speak.
Marco walked over to the desk and tapped one of the computer screens. The display lit up instantly, showing a live video feed from four different security cameras across the Moretti estate.
Camera 1: The main gate.
Camera 2: Dominic’s private office wing.
Camera 3: The lower docks on the Long Island Sound.
Camera 4: The interior of Kennel 12—the dead camera that had been rerouted away from the central security room directly to this private terminal.
“They didn't blow a fuse, Boss,” Marco said, his voice laced with rage. “Victor cut the feed to the main house so no one would see him starving Bruno. He needed the old dog dead.”
Dominic looked at the monitor showing Kennel 12.
“Why?” Dominic asked. “Why starve an old guard dog?”
Marco scanned the digital logs on the terminal screen, his fingers flying across the keyboard. “Because Bruno was trained by your father to recognize two things, Boss. Unfamiliar scents... and the scent of the Bellandi family’s private courier.”
Marco pulled up an archived clip from three weeks ago.
The video showed a man in a dark rain slicker walking past Kennel 12 at 2:00 AM, carrying a heavy leather duffel bag toward the cellar door. As the man passed, Bruno had exploded into violent, aggressive barking, hurling his body against the iron bars until the whole cage rattled.
Two days later, the video showed Victor removing Bruno’s food dish.
“He couldn't shoot the dog without raising suspicion,” Marco whispered, realization dawning on his face. “So he stopped feeding him. He let him weaken until he didn't have the energy to bark when the couriers came through the cellar lane.”
Dominic stood under the harsh white LED light, his eyes fixed on the stacks of foreign money.
“Victor didn't set up this terminal,” Dominic said calmly. “He’s a dog handler and a guard. He doesn't know how to run encrypted satellite comms or launder European notes.”
Dominic pulled his gun from his shoulder holster—a black Sig Sauer P226—and racked the slide with a clean, sharp clack.
He walked over to Victor, pressing the cold steel barrel against the back of the man’s neck.
“Who gave you the key, Victor?” Dominic asked.
Victor sobbed, his courage completely collapsing under the cold weight of the gun. “Don't kill me, Mr. Moretti! Please! He told me you were going down! He said the feds and the Bellandis were closing in on you by April!”
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“Who?” Dominic repeated.
“Leo!” Victor cried out, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Your brother! Leo gave me the key! He’s been selling your dock schedules to the Bellandis for six months!”
