Chapter 9 The Black Room Protocol

The Black Room wasn't a place. It was a sentence. Tucked beneath the Valieri estate, beyond three locked steel doors and a biometric vault, it hadn't been opened in over a decade. Because once it opened, someone never walked out the same. Not even Salvatore. Marco stood at the threshold, palms pressed to the reader. The lock hissed open like it had been waiting for him. Rafa followed silently, his hand on the grip of his gun. Inside, the air was different-dry, metallic, and heavy with the kind of secrets that don't stay buried without violence.

The room was circular, lined with soundproof black panels. No windows. No cameras. Only a single chair bolted to the floor, and a wall of old family files-blackmarked, redacted, hidden from the rest of the organization. The heart of Valieri control. The origin of every purge. Marco approached the chair, where a case sat waiting-sealed in wax with Salvatore's signet. He cracked it open. Inside: A loaded pistol. A coded journal. And a flash drive labeled "Protocol Icarus." Rafa raised a brow. "Wasn't that shut down after the Lisbon incident?" Marco plugged the drive into the secure terminal. "It was sealed. Not erased." The screen flickered to life. An old video loaded. Salvatore appeared, younger, blood on his shirt, cigarette trembling between his fingers. "If you're watching this... then we've failed." He leaned closer. "Protocol Icarus is scorched-earth. It's not about winning. It's about making sure no one else does." Salvatore inhaled smoke, exhaled despair. "We created too many sons. Too many shadows. Danilo was the first. But not the last." Pause. "There are three names buried in this drive. Each trained to replace me. One survived." The screen cut to static. Then flashed a list: Codename: VARRO Alias: Lucien D. Valieri Status: ACTIVE Threat Level: Critical Protocol: Blackout. Capture or Eliminate. No trial. No delay. --- Marco stared at the screen, jaw tight. So it was official. Lucien wasn't just Danilo's son. He was Salvatore's contingency. Rafa ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus. Your father created the perfect killer... then buried him." Marco's voice was ice. "And now he's digging up the empire." Three hours later, the war room pulsed with new energy. Marco stood before his remaining lieutenants-Raul, Bianchi, and three hand-picked hunters from the old days. He pointed to a map. "Lucien operates like a ghost, but ghosts leave echoes." He circled five locations across the city-warehouses, safe houses, dead drops. "He's using the doctrine, but not the patterns. He's improvising." Bianchi frowned. "So how do we catch him?" Marco smiled thinly. "We don't catch him." He tossed a burner phone onto the table. "We bait him. With me." Midnight. The message went out through every known underworld channel: "Marco Valieri. Solo. 3 a.m. Docks. Terms for surrender. No guards. No guns." It was a lie, of course. There would be guns. But no guards. Only Marco. Because Lucien wouldn't come for an army. He'd come for the crown. 2:58 a.m. - East Docks. Fog clung low to the water like a curse. The waves lapped soft and steady against the dock's edge. Every shadow felt loaded. Marco stood alone, coat billowing, hands in his pockets. No bulletproof vest. No mic. Just a cigarette burning too fast. From the fog, a shape emerged. Slow. Casual. Deliberate. Lucien. No mask. No theatrics. Just a scar across his jaw, cold eyes, and the swagger of a man who knew the ending was already written. Marco didn't move. Lucien stopped ten feet away. "You always this stupid?" Lucien asked. Marco shrugged. "Only when the math makes sense." Lucien smirked. "What math is that?" "You came to kill me. I came to let you try." Lucien's eyes narrowed. Then he said, "You sound like him." Marco raised a brow. "My father?" Lucien shook his head. "No." He stepped closer. Voice lower now. "Like mine." Without warning, Lucien lunged. No gun. Just a blade. Straight for the throat. Marco dodged, drew his pistol, fired-missed by inches. Lucien rolled, came up behind him, slashed Marco's side. Blood. Sharp and hot. Marco grunted, swung the pistol butt into Lucien's temple- But Lucien caught his wrist. Twisted. The gun fell into the sea. Now it was blade versus fists. Marco backed away, breathing hard. "You could've built something," he said. Lucien's eyes burned. "I am building something. Out of the bones of your dynasty." He charged again- Marco ducked, grabbed his coat, and threw them both off the dock. Into the freezing black water. They surfaced seconds later, gasping, thrashing. Marco slammed his fist into Lucien's jaw, grabbed the knife mid-swing, and drove it through Lucien's shoulder. Lucien howled-then laughed. Laughed. "You think that's enough?" he shouted. "You think blood makes you king?" Marco pulled him close in the water, nose to nose. "No," he whispered. "But it makes me the last one standing." Rafa and the team pulled them out minutes later. Lucien unconscious, bleeding. Marco soaked, limping, silent. Rafa looked at the body. "We kill him now?" Marco stared at the man who'd nearly ended everything. "No," he said. Rafa frowned. "Why not?" Marco's voice was steel. "Because I need him to watch me rebuild."