Chapter 7 - The Interrogation
The sub-level holding facility beneath the Lake Geneva estate was an old stone-arch cellar that had been converted into a high-security interrogation room. The air was damp, smelling of cold concrete and lingering fear.
Vincenzo Moretti—the ruthless, silver-haired head of the rival Chicago syndicate—sat strapped to a heavy iron chair in the center of the room. His bespoke Italian suit was ruined, stained with mud and sweat, and a nasty bruise was swelling across his left cheekbone where Marcus’s rifle butt had introduced itself during the botched raid.
The heavy steel door swung open, and the rhythmic, unhurried clicking of leather shoes echoed off the stone walls.
Luca Valente stepped into the harsh circle of overhead light. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his white dress shirt was rolled up at the sleeves, and his expression was a mask of cold, unyielding granite. He pulled up a simple metal folding chair right in front of Moretti, sat down backward, resting his arms over the metal back, and stared at his rival in absolute silence.
Moretti sneered, straining against the heavy leather straps binding his wrists to the chair. “You think you’ve won, boy? You think hiding out in this stone fortress makes you untouchable? My men know every inch of your territory—!”
“Your men are currently tied up in the back of a refrigerated meat truck heading for the bottom of Lake Michigan, Vincenzo,” Luca interrupted, his voice dangerously soft, cutting through the empty threats like a scalpel.
Moretti’s sneer faltered for a fraction of a second. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting around the dark cellar. “You’re ruthless, Luca. Just like your old man. But you’re arrogant. You left a weak spot. You let a traitor like Julian slip through the cracks.”
“Julian is currently wishing he was in the meat truck with your men,” Luca replied without missing a beat, leaning forward slightly. “He talked, Vincenzo. He gave me every routing code, every offshore shell company, and every corrupt politician on your payroll before he begged me to stop breaking his fingers.”
Moretti went completely rigid. The realization that his entire financial empire had just been dismantled in a matter of hours hit him like a physical blow.
“What do you want?” Moretti spat out, his voice finally losing its bravado, replaced by the bitter desperation of a defeated king. “An execution? Go ahead. Do it.”
“An execution is too quick for what you tried to do tonight,” Luca said coldly, standing up slowly and buttoning the cuffs of his shirt. He leaned down, bringing his face inches from Moretti’s ear. “You didn't just try to steal my shipping lanes, Vincenzo. You brought a war to my doorstep. You threatened my home.”
Moretti let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Your home? It’s a syndicate stronghold, Luca! There are no children here, no families—just killers and accountants!”
Luca stopped cold. He straightened up, turning to look down at his rival with a look of absolute, lethal pity.
“That’s where you made your final mistake, Vincenzo,” Luca whispered. “You thought my life was just about business.”
Luca turned on his heel and walked toward the heavy steel door. As he reached for the handle, he paused and glanced back over his shoulder.
“Marcus, leave him tied to the chair until morning,” Luca commanded smoothly. “Then drop him on the front steps of the Chicago police headquarters with a copy of his signed confessions to federal racketeering. Let the feds finish what we started.”
“Understood, Boss,” Marcus replied, stepping out of the shadows with a cold grin.
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As the heavy vault door slammed shut behind him, sealing Moretti's fate forever, Luca walked up the stone stairs toward the upper levels of the chateau. The war was over. The syndicate was united under his flag, cleaner and stronger than it had ever been.
And it was all because a three-year-old girl in an oversized suit had decided to play detective.
