His Mafia Prince
Chapter 267: I’m Bad People, Too

Chapter 267: I’m Bad People, Too

(TYLER)

Obtaining a gun and a knife is a surprisingly simple operation, although the contact Miles gave me took some convincing that I was who I said I was. Even after using the password, he looked doubtful. It was only when I told him that I was there on behalf of Sasha Adonis, that he nodded. Then he took me through into a cement-walled backroom, and let me take my pick of the weapons he had to offer.

I took the smallest caliber gun he had, because was most similar to the one Sasha had trained me with, and a knife, stubby and squat, but deadly in the right hands. Mine are not the right hands; in fact, if I get to a point where I’m left with no other option than the knife, it’ll be pretty much the end, but I took it just in case I’ll need something to cut ropes or zip ties.

I asked about the location where I saw Sasha’s bleeping icon. The guy swipes around on the map on his own phone, zooming in and out of the position I pointed out until I was ready to stick the knife in between his ribs, and then he nodded and said something in rapid Italian.

"Slow down, please," I begged.

"Cat-a-comb," he said slowly and deliberately.

"Catacomb?" I grabbed the map back and stared at it. "This signal is coming from a fucking maze under the city?"

And now, in the back of another taxi, I’m checking the Wikipedia entries on Roman catacombs. There are over forty catacombs, and the one in which Sasha—or his ring, anyway—is in, is not one of the ones open to the public, and is mostly used by homeless Romans as shelter at night.

When I arrive, I’m actually guided by some of those rough sleepers to the hidden entrance. "No, no," one says, when I nod my thanks and turn away, making for the entrance.

"Sorry," I say. "I’m forgetting my manners." I hold out a twenty-euro bill to him, but he slaps my hand away.

"No, no," he insists, trying to pull me back. "Not in there." He abandons any attempts to speak English, but his Italian is easy enough to understand. "There are bad people in there."

I take his hand and push the money back into it. "I understand," I tell him. "Don’t worry. I’m bad people, too."

It might seem obvious, but before I went in, I didn’t realize how creepy it would be to descend into a dank catacomb in the middle of the night with only my phone as a light. I’d been picturing walls of skulls and gates made out of bones, but the reality—rough-hewn limestone worn down over the millennia, and walls so close together in some parts that I have to turn side- on to get through—is somehow worse. All I can do is keep one eye on the blinking signal light on the tracking app, and the other on the path so I don’t stumble, while I listen out for any noise.

Pretty soon, though, the light stops blinking, stays a dull blue color, and a message pops up next to it: Last known location. For a second I panic, until I realize I’ve lost reception on my cell phone. I must be too deep in. But if I just keep going, I should find Sasha.

Or his last known location.

The next problem, as I judge I must be getting closer to the coordinates for Sasha’s ring, is that the passages begin to branch out into two, sometimes three tunnels. Next to each branch, though, there are phrases in chalk, paint, even cut into the rock walls, and after I manage to translate one or two of them, I realize that they’re directions.

Big open area this way, reads one.

Stinks like piss, reads a response, but stays warm overnight.

Along the way there are empty and broken bottles, piles of cigarettes butts, screwed-up foil balls and old hypodermics, scraps of moldering clothes, newspapers grown wet and clumpy. All in all, it looks like these catacombs are used pretty regularly. But I meet no people along the way, alive or dead. Those bad people must have scared away all shelter-seekers for the night.

More than once I have to backtrack when I hit a dead end. But eventually I think I’m getting closer. I probably haven’t even come that far in terms of distance, but the darkness, the creep factor, and the time it takes me to translate some of the directions scribbled on the rock walls are all slowing me down.

Based on the graffiti marks I’m currently following, the area I’m in has not been widely explored. And it doesn’t take long before one dire, chalked prediction—Caved in—is proved right, and I’ve reached another dead end.

The tunnel must be closer to the surface here, with tree roots and coming in from the ceiling. The piled-up rocks that block the way are all pretty small, except for one large marble block at the bottom of them all. When I helplessly check the app again on my phone, even though it won’t update in real time, I spot a cemetery marked on the map, near Last known position.

I have an intrusive vision of bony fingers stretching down towards me, of Death grasping for me to keep me here in this underground chamber of despair, and I have to lean over and slow my breath down.

I’ve failed. I have no idea where I am.

More importantly, I have no idea where Sasha is.

And now maybe I’m lost in this maze of passageways and I’ll never find my way out, never have another chance to find Sasha...

"Shut up," I spit at myself, and try to think rationally. Panicking will not help.

Since I’m not moving right now, I turn off the flashlight to conserve phone battery. Somehow the complete darkness is more comforting than seeing the narrow walls, the reaching tree roots, the clumps of dirt and rocks. It’s so dark that I start thinking I can actually see a glow in the darkness, and I blink a few times and rub my eyes to help them adjust.

But I’m not seeing things. There’s definitely a faint light coming from somewhere behind this caved-in part of the tunnel. I take a step to one side, then the other, judging where the light gets brighter, and then all at once, like one of those fuzzy hidden image pictures suddenly coming into focus, I see that there’s a space in the cave-in that a person could squeeze through, if they really wanted to.

If they were crazy enough to do it. Me? I’m pretty fucking crazy.

I slide through the gap slowly and carefully. The glow is definitely getting brighter. On the other side is more tunnel, but only a short distance, and the end of it is lit up with a yellow light.

And as I shuffle forward, I hear a voice. A low murmur. There is someone—maybe someones—up ahead, and whether it’s the Roman homeless or an Irish asshole, I’m about to find out. The tunnel curves around so it hides me from view, but it opens up abruptly into a larger area. I have to scramble backward again to stay out of sight.

"The fuck was that?" mutters a rough, Irish-accented voice. There’s a silence, and I try to keep even my breathing as quiet as I can. But I’m just about shitting myself. If the guy is talking, who is he talking to? How many of them are there? I can maybe stop one.

If I have time enough to aim, and if they’re not moving. Or shooting back.

"Rats," says the same voice, and then sighs. "Just the rats. Maybe they can chew on your toes, eh?"

"They’ll be eating your eyeballs soon enough," says a cold, threatening voice, and I put my hand out to the wall to steady myself.

It’s Sasha.

Sasha, and he’s alive.

The only reply to Sasha’s comment is an amused chuckle, and then silence descends again. I guess the Irish aren’t all that interested in conversing with their captives. I wait a few minutes more, praying that no rats will actually start swarming by my feet, and then I chance another quick look around the tunnel wall into the open area.

It’s a tomb-like room, lit by a battery-operated lamp set in the middle. It’s not huge, but big enough to accommodate, say, a group of college students who might be looking for somewhere private to party. The walls are covered in faded graffiti. There are more bottles and cans, and even some ancient, faded, fast food wrappers discarded here and there.

And there’s only one Irish asshole that I can see. Standing, pacing, fair- haired. Dressed all in black with his back to me.

One asshole.

And one Sasha propped up against the wall, legs sticking out straight, ankles bound by zip ties, with his wrists behind him.

The sight of him, the sound of his voice, has galvanized me. He’s there and he’s alive, and he’s staring straight at me. His captor didn’t see me walk right into the lion’s den, but nothing escapes my man’s attention.

Especially not me.

I show my gun hand to him, letting it hover slightly around the corner.

Sasha gives a sharp jerk of the head, and I duck back obediently before the asshole turns around again. "When’s your buddy coming back?" Sasha asks. "He’s been gone a while."

Shit. So there’s another one of them. And he’ll be back soon. So I need to sack up and act fast.

"You shut your mouth," the blond says, "and maybe I’ll think about that drink of water you’ve been asking for. Hm?"

I know then what kind of man he is, this particular asshole: a sadistic fuck who gets off on having power over other people.

Sasha says softly, "Maybe my husband’s already taken care of your friend. Maybe you’re next."

The other man just laughs. "That soft little bunny rabbit of yours? No chance."

"I have many friends here in Italy."

There’s a scoffing noise. "And just as many enemies."

It’s time. Sasha is keeping this guy occupied, precisely so I can do what I need to do. It’s time to show the Irish that this soft little bunny rabbit has very sharp teeth.

I take a few seconds to check my gun, make sure the safety is off, that my hand is steady. I move two short steps into the open area, line up the guy in my sights, and fire three times