Chapter X – The Dukaan
The rain had stopped hours ago, but the air over the Visalla estate still smelled faintly of wet stone and cedar. A pale mist clung low to the ground, curling lazily around the iron fence posts and creeping across the gravel drive like a thing alive. The night sky was moonless, the estate's tall, shuttered windows glowing faintly with warm yellow light against the black.
Michael stepped through the heavy oak doors and into the main hall.
Silence.
The kind of silence money could buy — thick, padded, deliberate. No servants in sight. No echo of footsteps except his own. The great chandelier overhead dripped with light like molten glass, its slow sway making the crystals shiver softly.
He didn't linger. The meeting with the minister earlier still played in his mind in snatches: the folded hands, the barely-there smirk, the ambassador's carefully neutral face as the deal was struck. That chapter was over. Now came the aftermath.
His coat shifted as he moved, the faint weight inside it — a habit, not a necessity tonight — reminding him of who he was. And of what lay beneath the estate.
He crossed the hall, past tall oil paintings of ancestors whose names he barely remembered. The west wing corridor narrowed, the polished wood panels giving way to rougher stone. The smell changed too, losing its faint cologne-and-polish fragrance for something cooler, dustier, older.
At the far end was a door most visitors never noticed — plain wood, unremarkable. He opened it, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind him.
The storeroom was small and dim, lit by a single wall sconce. Wooden crates sat stacked in one corner, draped with dust-caked canvas sheets. A moth-eaten armchair slumped in another. The air here tasted of disuse.
Against the back wall stood an old bookshelf, bowing slightly under the weight of dozens of leather-bound volumes. Their spines were cracked and flaking, the gold lettering faded to the color of weak tea.
Michael ran a hand along them as though browsing. He stopped at one near the center — a heavy, unmarked tome. He pulled it forward.
A soft mechanical click answered.
The entire bookshelf shifted with a groan of hidden gears, sliding soundlessly aside to reveal a narrow steel door.
Michael stepped inside. The space beyond was barely wide enough for him, its walls a brushed metal that reflected his shadow in warped distortions. In front of him was a control panel with a single button labeled B1.
He pressed it.
The door slid shut with a quiet hiss, sealing him inside. The floor vibrated under his feet as the lift began its slow, deliberate descent. The hum of machinery filled the space, a low mechanical heartbeat. The air grew colder as they went down, the metallic tang deepening, the faint scent of damp stone seeping in.
When the lift stopped, the doors opened onto a short, dimly lit corridor.
A man stood there, broad-shouldered in a dark security uniform, his hands clasped behind his back.
"Good evening, sir," the guard said, voice deep and respectful.
"Is Dante here?" Michael asked, stepping forward without breaking stride.
"Yes, sir. He's already waiting for you."
Michael walked on.
The corridor led to a set of reinforced steel bars that served as a second barrier. Beyond them, the basement opened into what the old estate records once called The Dukaan. The name had no official meaning now — it was just what the guards called it. But the air changed the moment he stepped past the threshold.
The basement wasn't just old. It was ancient.
The walls were built of rough, uneven stone blocks slick with moisture, the mortar between them cracked and crumbling. The ceiling was low in places, supported by wooden beams darkened to near-black with age. Rusted iron hooks jutted from the walls at intervals, their original purpose lost to time but still suggestive in their silence.
The light came from bare bulbs dangling from frayed cords, their glow sickly and yellow. They swung faintly in some unseen draft, making the shadows move like living things. The air was damp and carried a faint undercurrent of rot, like water that had been sitting still for years.
It smelled of old fear.
Michael's footsteps echoed softly as he walked deeper, past empty cells with heavy, rusted doors. In one corner, water dripped steadily from the ceiling into a rusted bucket. Somewhere further down, the faint metallic clink of a chain shifting broke the stillness.
And then, ahead, a figure.
Dante.
He was leaning against the wall outside one of the occupied cells, one boot propped against the stone. His arms were crossed loosely, his black jacket zipped halfway up. Beside him stood another guard — younger, wiry, watchful.
Inside the cell, sitting on the cold stone floor with his back to the wall, was the American boy.
Ethan Ward.
He was hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his head lowered so that his blond hair fell into his eyes. His clothes were wrinkled, the sleeves pushed up, showing pale forearms.
When Dante saw Michael, he straightened slightly, a lazy grin curling across his face.
"Good morning, Mikey," he said, his tone light but edged with something unspoken.
"Hey there, Dan," Michael replied, stepping closer. "How's the situation?"
"His vitals are okay," Dante said, glancing toward the boy. "He fainted a little while ago. Refused food. Stubborn bastard."
Michael's gaze lingered on Ethan for a moment. The boy didn't look up.
"Stubborn bastard indeed," Michael murmured. Then, more clearly: "We need to return him."
Dante's brows rose slightly. "Return?"
"Yeah," Michael said. "Apparently, he's the son of the American ambassador to the UK."
Dante let out a short, dismissive laugh. "So? Are we scared of someone like that now?"
Michael's voice was calm, even. "No. It's just that the federal minister and my interests align, for the moment. Nothing more. Anyway… we don't need this bastard."
Dante studied him for a beat, then nodded once. "Hmmm. Okay. We'll return him."
Michael stepped closer to the cell door. Ethan's head rose slightly, his eyes meeting Michael's — dull, soulless, as if drained of color. Michael reached through the bars, sliding his hand through the boy's hair before gripping the back of his head firmly.
"Isn't fate too cruel?" Michael said softly, almost to himself. "One day it gives us the biggest happiness of our lives… and the next, it hands us something that makes us wish we were dead."
Ethan said nothing.
"Don't ever come back to the school," Michael said. "Matter of fact, run back to your country."
He let go of Ethan and stepped back.
Turning to the guard beside Dante, Michael said, "Clean him up. Return him to his family. Make sure to write a note saying this is your last chance."
"Okay, sir," the guard replied immediately.
Dante's phone buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket and stepped a few paces away, answering in a low voice.
Michael watched him, reading the faint shifts in his expression.
Without looking away, he told the guard, "Return this boy tonight. Make sure the authorities aren't suspicious."
"Yes, sir."
Dante returned, sliding the phone back into his jacket.
"Who was it?" Michael asked.
"Some freak who wants our hitman service," Dante said.
Michael tilted his head. "Who is this freak?"
"I don't know. I'm finding his identity."
Michael's eyes narrowed. "So… who does he want so dead?"
Dante's tone was casual, but there was a flicker of interest in his eyes. "Some guy named Jeffery Antickson. No idea who he is. I'm trying to find out — along with who's making the demand."
Michael's expression sharpened.
"Hmmm," he said slowly. "Don't attend bastards like these. Never take a job when you don't know your employer's identity."
"I know that, sir," Dante replied.
"Good." Michael checked his watch. "I need to go. It's my training time."
"I'll leave by the other entrance," Dante said.
"Okay. Have a nice day."
"You too."
Dante turned and walked away, his boots thudding softly against the damp stone until the sound disappeared into the shadows.
Michael waited until he was sure Dante was gone. Then he took out his phone, dialing a number from memory.
A voice answered. "Hello there, young master."
"Hey," Michael said. "I need you to get some info."
"Sure."
"Track Dante's call logs. Find the identity of his most recent caller."
"Sure, sir. I'll call soon."
Michael ended the call, slipping the phone back into his pocket. He turned toward the lift, walking slowly through the shadows of the Dukaan, past the dripping water and the cold stone.
"What kind of life," he murmured to himself, "does that bastard live to have so many people looking for him?"
The lift swallowed him again, and the steel doors closed with a whisper.
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