Chapter 14 - The Interrogation
“That’s impossible,” I said, taking an involuntary step back from the desk. “I don't even know what half those blueprints mean! I’m a hotel management graduate, not an industrial spy!”
Marcus didn't soften. He kept his arms crossed over his chest, his professional detachment clinical and cold. “The keycard logs don't lie, Miss Reyes. Your ID badge was used to access the third-floor archive three times last week between midnight and 2:00 AM.”
“I was sleeping in the West Suite! Ask Mrs. Gable! Ask Daisy!”
“Anyone can swipe a badge if it’s left unattended on a desk,” Marcus countered smoothly.
I turned my desperate gaze toward Caleb.
Caleb was standing behind his desk, holding the manila envelope in his hand. His face was a mask of cold, impenetrable stone. The man who had kissed me under the moonlight in Greenwich, the man who had promised to protect me from the world, looked like a stranger—a mob king evaluating a traitor in his ranks.
“Caleb,” I whispered, my voice breaking. “You know me. You know I didn't do this.”
Caleb looked down at the documents inside the envelope. He pulled out a printed copy of an email chain stamped with a Zurich IP address.
“The primary contact email on the shell company account,” Caleb said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth, “is [email protected].”
I froze.
The room seemed to spin on its axis.
“That’s... that’s my old email address,” I stammered, panic surging through my veins like ice water. “I haven't used it in two years! I closed it down when I left Ohio!”
“Yet someone accessed it yesterday morning to confirm the transfer of fifty thousand dollars into a Swiss bank account,” Marcus added relentlessly.
“Enough, Marcus,” Caleb commanded quietly.
Caleb walked around the desk. He didn't yell. He didn't slam his fists. He stopped two feet away from me, his stormy gray eyes searching my face with a terrifying, clinical scrutiny.
“Marisol,” Caleb said, his voice dangerously low. “Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't take money from Vincent Rossi.”
“I didn't take a dime from Vincent Rossi!” I cried out, tears of frustration and terror stinging my eyes. “I wouldn't even know how to set up a Swiss bank account! I was living in my car six months ago, Caleb! Look at me! Does this look like the lifestyle of someone sitting on fifty thousand dollars in Zurich?”
Caleb stared at me for a long, agonizing eternity.
The silence stretched so thin I thought it might snap. Every instinct I had—every hotel manager survival trick, every human instinct of self-preservation—screamed that I was standing on the edge of a cliff. In his world, traitors didn't get a trial by jury. Traitors got tied to chairs in Bridgeport.
“Marcus,” Caleb said, without breaking eye contact with me.
“Boss?”
“Leave us.”
“Caleb, are you sure? The evidence—”
“I said, leave us,” Caleb repeated, his voice dropping into a lethal growl.
Marcus swallowed hard, grabbed his briefcase, and hurried out of the office, closing the double doors firmly behind him.
We were alone.
Caleb closed the distance between us, closing his hand around my wrist—not violently, but with an unbreakable, iron grip. He pulled me close, backing me up against the heavy wooden doors of the office until my spine pressed against the wood.
“Listen to me very carefully,” Caleb whispered fiercely, his breath hot against my cheek. “If the New York families or the federal grand jury find this evidence, I will have no choice legally or operationally. They will demand your head on a spike to satisfy the syndicate.”
“Then protect me!” I sobbed, the tears finally spilling over. “You said nothing touches us!”
“I am trying to protect you!” Caleb hissed, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle twitched. “Which is why you are going to tell me who gave you the badge, who knows your old email password, and who is trying to frame my chief of staff.”
I gasped, the gears in my frantic brain finally clicking into place.
“The agency,” I breathed.
“What?”
“The staffing agency in Stamford that placed me here,” I said, urgency sharpening my voice. “When I applied for the housekeeping job, I had to submit copies of my old college transcripts, my resume, and my previous employment records—including my old Gmail address. Anyone with access to the agency’s HR database could hack those files in five minutes!”
Caleb’s eyes narrowed. The tactical machinery inside his brilliant, ruthless mind began to turn.
“Vance,” Caleb said suddenly.
“What about Vance?”
“Vance wasn't just leaking real-estate data to Boston,” Caleb realized, his voice dropping an octave. “Vance was the one who vetted your employment file when you were hired three months ago. He had the keys to the agency database. He knew every password you ever used.”
“He set me up,” I whispered, horror washing over me. “He knew he was getting squeezed out, so he planted my old email address and cloned my keycard logs to take me down with him.”
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Caleb stared at me, the harsh, defensive wall around his heart finally cracking. He reached up, his rough, calloused thumb gently wiping away a tear from my cheek.
“I’m sorry I doubted you, Marisol,” he murmured, his voice thick with a raw, buried emotion. “In my world, everyone has a price. I forgot that some things are priceless.”
