Chapter 6 - The Interrogation of Frankie Graziano
The concrete interrogation room in the basement of the east wing was windowless, stark, and brutally efficient. A single heavy steel table sat beneath a glaring industrial overhead lamp, casting harsh light across Frankie Graziano's bruised face. He was cuffed securely to the bolted steel chair, his expensive tactical gear stripped away and replaced with a standard gray prison jumpsuit that was a size too small.
I sat on the opposite side of the table, slowly turning the titanium ultrasonic collar over in my hands, letting the metallic click-clack echo rhythmically in the silent room.
Frankie spat a small streak of blood onto the concrete floor, glaring up at me with defiant, venomous eyes. "You think you're smart, Alessio? You think catching us in the basement means you've won? Vito Morello knows we're here. If we don't check in by sunrise, his strike team hits every single shipping dock, warehouse, and front business you own across the tri-state area."
I didn't flinch. I didn't raise my voice. I simply placed the titanium collar down on the steel table, sliding it forward until it rested inches from his cuffed hands.
"Vito Morello is a coward who fights through proxy traitors like my cousin," I said, my tone ice-cold. "And right now, Vito doesn't even know you've been caught because your secure radio frequencies have been jammed since the moment you crawled through that drainage pipe."
Frankie's defiant expression faltered for a fraction of a second, his eyes darting toward the heavy steel door where Viktor stood guard like a gargoyle.
"You want to know why I had Matteo locked in a freezing cellar instead of putting a bullet between his eyes?" I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the table, locking my gaze directly onto him. "Because I wanted to save the bullet for someone who actually matters. Now, you're going to tell me every single name on the Morello payroll inside Chicago municipal taking law enforcement, every corrupt judge their envelopes, and every stash house they're operating on the south side. Or I can let Nero in here to show you how much he appreciates the person who designed his little neck accessory."
At the mention of his name, a low, ominous growl rumbled from the hallway outside the open door. Nero didn't even need to enter the room; the mere echo of his warning sound caused all the color to drain completely from Frankie's face.
Frankie swallowed hard, his bravado finally evaporating under the crushing weight of reality. "Okay... okay! Jesus Christ, man, don't sick the dog on me. I'll talk. I'll give you everything."
"Start talking," I said, pulling a digital recorder from my pocket and placing it squarely in the center of the table.
For the next two hours, Frankie spilled every dirty secret the Morello syndicate had spent a decade burying. He gave up badge numbers, bank account numbers, encrypted server locations, and illicit warehouse addresses. Viktor recorded every single syllable, his pen flying across a notepad with ruthless efficiency.
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When Frankie finally slumped back in his chair, completely exhausted and broken, I stood up, buttoned my jacket, and looked down at him with utter disdain.
"Take him down to the lower holding cells," I included Viktor as I turned toward the door. "Keep Miller separated. Tomorrow morning, we're going to hand every single piece of this intelligence directly to the federal task force. The Morello family is about to experience a very harsh winter."
