Chapter 6 - The Interrogation
Ten minutes later, the private command suite was bathed in the harsh, amber glow of a desk lamp.
Vincent Costa sat behind his mahogany desk, leaning back in his leather chair with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked remarkably healthy; the parchment pallor was gone, replaced by a rich, sun-kissed skin tone, and his posture was entirely unhindered by his previous rib injuries.
Marco was shoved forward onto his knees by two heavy-handed enforcers, landing hard on the Persian rug right in front of Vincent’s desk.
Vincent didn't look angry. He looked profoundly, chillingly bored—which, in the underworld, was the exact emotion that preceded extreme violence.
“Marco,” Vincent said quietly, his voice like the rustling of dry autumn leaves. “You’ve worked in this estate for four years. Your father serviced my father’s vehicles. I trusted your family.”
Marco trembled violently, tears streaming down his face as he stared at the floor. “Boss... I’m sorry... they had my sister... the Marcones took her—!”
“Shut up,” Vincent whispered.
The single word carried such absolute, bone-chilling finality that Marco snapped his mouth shut instantly, choking back his sobs.
Vincent slowly stood up from his desk, walking around the mahogany surface until he stood directly over the kneeling footman. He looked down at Marco with the cold detachment of a scientist observing an insect under a microscope.
“You tried to poison my wine,” Vincent said evenly. “Tetrodotoxin. A very expensive, very sophisticated neurotoxin. You didn’t buy that on the street, and the Marcone grunts wouldn't know how to spell it.”
Vincent turned his head slightly, his dark eyes shifting toward Olivia, who stood near the bookshelf holding the spectrometer tablet.
“She caught it in under ten seconds,” Vincent continued, his voice laced with a strange, dark pride. “If not for her, I would have died eating my dinner.”
Vincent looked back down at Marco. He didn't raise his voice. He didn't pull a weapon.
“Leo,” Vincent called out.
“Boss?” Leo stepped forward from the shadows of the doorway.
“Take him to the harbor,” Vincent commanded flatly. “Tie a fifty-pound concrete block to his ankles. Let the Marcone family fish him out of the bay tomorrow morning to remind them what happens when they try to infiltrate my house.”
“No! Boss, please! Have mercy!” Marco shrieked, clawing at the rug as the enforcers hauled him upward by his arms, dragging him kicking and screaming out of the double doors.
The heavy oak doors slammed shut, cutting off the cries.
Silence settled over the command suite once more.
Vincent walked slowly over to the mahogany desk, picked up the crystal goblet containing the poisoned wine, and stared at it for a long moment before pouring the contents down a small sink built into the corner cabinet.
He rinsed the glass with clean water, set it down, and turned around to face Olivia.
“You saved my life a second time, Olivia,” Vincent said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant register.
“I saved my own life, Mr. Costa,” Olivia corrected smoothly, resting her tablet against her side. “If you die, the security protocols in this estate automatically trigger a purge of everyone brought in during the last six months. That includes me.”
A faint, amused smile touched Vincent’s lips. He took two slow steps toward her, closing the distance between them until he was standing just inches away. Up close, his dark eyes held a raw, intense magnetism that made her breath hitch.
“You always have a cynical explanation for everything,” Vincent murmured softly.
“It’s not cynicism,” Olivia replied, holding his gaze without flinching. “It’s chemistry. Actions have predictable reactions.”
Vincent reached out. For a fraction of a second, Olivia thought he was going to touch her face, but instead, his hand brushed past her shoulder, pulling a stray pin from her hair and letting the dark brown waves tumble freely down her back.
“Chemistry,” Vincent repeated, his voice a low purr. “Then tell me, Dr. Hayes... what is the chemical reaction between two people who know the worst about each other, yet refuse to let the other die?”
Olivia’s heart skipped a beat. The academic detachment she had relied on for two years—the cold, clinical armor that kept her safe in a world of monsters—suddenly felt paper-thin.
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Before she could formulate a clinical response, Vincent closed the remaining gap, his strong hands resting gently on her waist as he pulled her close.
And as his lips met hers, Olivia realized with a sudden, thrilling jolt that some variables in life simply could not be calculated on a spreadsheet.
