Chapter 4 - The Interrogation of Shadows
Down in the concrete basement of Level 2, the air was cold and damp. Dr. Miller sat at a metal table in a windowless holding room, nervously tapping his fingers against a paper cup of water.
The heavy steel door flew open.
Rocco Marchetti walked in, followed by Bruno, who instantly locked the door behind them and pulled down the heavy canvas blinder over the observation window.
"Mr. Marchetti," Miller stammered, standing up quickly. "How is the baby? Is he... is he holding up?"
Rocco didn't answer. He walked slowly around the table, his footsteps heavy and measured. He pulled off his watch, a heavy platinum Patek Philippe, and placed it calmly on the table.
"Tell me, Miller," Rocco said softly, leaning over the back of a metal chair. "How long have you worked on my private medical retainer?"
"Four... four years, sir," Miller stammered, sweating profusely under the harsh overhead fluorescent lights. "I’ve always been loyal to you. I treated your gunshot wound in Monaco three years ago! I—"
CRASH!
In a flash of pure, violent movement, Rocco grabbed Miller by his throat, slammed him back across the steel table, and pressed his massive forearm down against the paramedic's windpipe.
Miller gagged, his eyes bulging as his legs kicked uselessly against the metal floor.
"You sat in my son's nursery," Rocco whispered, his face inches from Miller's pale, suffocating face. "You watched him starve for air. And then you picked up a scalpel to slice open his throat so he would bleed to death in front of my eyes."
"No... no!" Miller wheezed, blood vessels standing out on his forehead. "It was... an accident... the swelling..."
Rocco reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out the printed toxicology report, and shoved it directly into Miller's face.
"Diisopropyl fluorophosphate," Rocco growled. "You put it in his 8:00 PM vitamins, didn't you? You knew the organophosphate would cause glottic spasm within six hours. You knew I would call you—my high-paid private medic—to save him. And you were going to kill him on the table and blame it on an unmanageable airway obstruction."
Miller’s face turned purple. His hands clawed at Rocco’s forearm, but Rocco held him down like a stone slab.
"Who paid you?" Rocco asked, his voice dropping into an icy whisper. "Tell me who paid you to kill my son, or I will let Bruno use his surgical tools on you for the next three days."
Rocco eased the pressure on Miller's throat just enough for the man to draw a ragged, gasping breath.
"It... it wasn't... Vanessa..." Miller sobbed, tears spilling down his sweaty cheeks. "I swear... it wasn't her..."
"I didn't ask who it wasn't," Rocco snarled. "I asked who paid you!"
"The... the Moretti family," Miller choked out.
Rocco went completely still.
Bruno stepped forward, his face pale. "The Morettis? Don Moretti is in Milan!"
"No..." Miller wheezed, coughing up blood. "Not Don Moretti. His... his chief counsel. Arthur Vance."
In the observation room upstairs, Arya stood behind the one-way glass, monitoring the intercom feed. At the sound of that name, her hand tightened around her coffee cup so hard the cardboard crushed, hot liquid spilling over her fingers.
Arthur Vance.
The legal mastermind behind the Johns Hopkins scandal that had destroyed her life three years ago. The high-powered corporate attorney who had represented the senator whose son died on her operating table. The man who had manufactured the false evidence that stripped her of her medical license, bankrupted her family, and forced her into hiding as a maid under the name Annie.
"Arthur Vance," Rocco repeated down in the interrogation room, his voice dripping with venom. "Why would a corrupt American lawyer work with Don Moretti to kill my six-month-old son?"
"Because..." Miller gasped, his lungs fighting for air. "Because Vance... he's laundering... millions through the Moretti family's pharmaceutical distribution lines in Europe. He knew... he knew if Leo died... you would go to war with the Russians in South Africa, thinking they did it. It would... distract you while Vance and Moretti took over the Amalfi ports..."
Miller coughed violently.
"And... and Vance... he wanted... he wanted the maid dead too," Miller whimpered.
Rocco’s eyes narrowed. "What?"
"Vance... he found out... three weeks ago... that Dr. Arya Vance was working as your maid in Amalfi," Miller whispered, his voice failing. "He told me... if she tried to intervene in the nursery... I was supposed to... kill her too... and make it look like... an accident during the panic..."
Down in the room, Rocco slowly straightened up. He looked at Bruno.
"He tried to kill my son," Rocco said softly. "And he tried to kill my doctor."
Rocco turned toward the steel door, picking up his platinum watch from the table and strapping it back onto his wrist with cold, mechanical precision.
"Bruno," Rocco said calmly as he walked toward the exit. "Clean the room."
May you like
"Yes, boss," Bruno replied, drawing his silenced Beretta.
A single muffled thud echoed through the concrete basement as Rocco stepped out into the hallway, where Arya was waiting for him, her eyes burning with an intense, terrifying fire.
