The tunnel opened into a forgotten chapel in Queens, an old sanctuary long since abandoned to time and decay. Rain poured through shattered stained glass windows, casting jagged patterns of blue and red across the rotting pews. The scent of damp stone and mildew hung thick in the air. Somewhere above, thunder rolled like distant war drums.
Luca stepped inside first, boots crunching softly against broken tiles. Enzo followed close behind, his eyes scanning the shadows like a man who had seen too many ghosts.
"This place used to be holy," Luca murmured, sweeping his flashlight beam across the altar.
"Used to be," Enzo agreed. "Now it's just another grave."
They moved deeper into the chapel, past the last row of pews where a statue of Saint Michael loomed, sword raised, face worn smooth by years of neglect. Behind it, the wall was different from the rest, newer bricks, patched mortar, and a faint outline that suggested something hidden.
Luca approached the statue and ran his fingers along the base. There was a small engraving beneath the saint's feet:
"In memory of the betrayed."
He looked at Enzo. "This is it."
Enzo nodded. "Your grandfather used to come here after your father died. He said this was the only place he could still hear him."
Luca placed both hands on the wall and pushed. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a groan of rusted hinges, a panel slid open, revealing a hidden chamber beyond.
Inside, the room was dimly lit by flickering emergency lights wired into the ceiling. Shelves lined the walls, filled with files, ledgers, and photographs, records of every deal, every betrayal, every murder that had shaped the Varga Empire. In the center stood a wooden desk, neatly organized. On top of it sat a single red rose wrapped in plastic, untouched by time.
Luca walked in slowly, as if stepping into a tomb. His eyes landed on the ledger first. He pulled it toward him and flipped through the pages.
Names inked in blood.
Some were crossed out. Others circled.
His father's name was near the top... Vittorio Varga. Next to it, a date. A cause. And beside that, a single word:
Traitor.
Luca clenched his jaw. "He wasn't a traitor."
Enzo exhaled. "That's what they wanted everyone to believe."
Luca turned to him. "Then tell me the truth."
Enzo hesitated. Then, after a long silence, he spoke.
"Your father found out Rocco was working with the Colombos. They were setting up a deal to take over the docks, cut the Vargas out completely. Vittorio confronted Anton. Said we should strike first."
Luca stared at him. "And my grandfather?"
"He refused. Didn't want a war. But your father… he made a move anyway. Went behind Anton's back. Tried to cut a deal with the Irish."
Luca shook his head. "So they killed him."
"They made an example," Enzo corrected. "To keep the others in line."
Luca's hands curled into fists. "And you? You knew all this?"
Enzo looked away. "I did what I had to do to survive."
Luca stepped closer, voice low. "You let them kill my family."
"I kept you alive," Enzo shot back. "You think I didn't know what would happen when Anton disappeared? I made sure Frankie got to you first. Gave you a chance."
Luca studied him for a long moment. Then he turned back to the ledger, flipping further down the list until he reached a name circled twice:
... Don Rocco Serra ...
He traced the ink with his fingertip.
"This ends with him," Luca said quietly.
Enzo crossed his arms. "It won't be easy. He's got men everywhere. The whole city's in his pocket."
Luca closed the ledger and tucked it under his arm. "Then we start cutting off fingers."
Outside, the storm raged on.
Inside, a new war had begun.