Chapter 2 - Confessions in the Dark
The fire in the library hearth cast long, dancing shadows across floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with first-edition classics and heavy ledgers. Victor Vance sat in a leather armchair near the fire, looking smaller than he usually did, his expensive silk tie loosened at the collar. Standing near the window was Chef Gustave, his white apron removed, his face pale with a mixture of terror and indignation.
Dominic walked in silently, closing the heavy door behind him with a dull, echoing click. He didn't sit. He walked over to the mahogany desk, picked up a heavy silver letter opener, and turned it over slowly in his fingers.
"Victor," Dominic said softly. "You look warm. Too warm for a autumn night."
Victor forced a thin, nervous laugh, standing up abruptly. "Dominic, what is the meaning of this? Marcus and his men practically dragged me out of the drawing room. I'm your cousin! I manage your portfolios! What kind of paranoid madness—"
"Quiet," Dominic said.
The single word dropped into the room with the weight of a falling safe. Victor snapped his mouth shut, his Adam's apple bobbing violently.
Dominic turned his gaze to the chef. "Gustave. Fifteen years. I sent your daughter to Lausanne for her university degree. I paid off your brother’s medical debts when the banks wanted to take his home. And yet, the camera in the service corridor was spliced during your shift."
Gustave dropped to his knees on the Persian rug, his hands trembling. "Mr. Moretti, I swear on the soul of my mother, I didn't touch the wiring! I was in the walk-in freezer checking the wagyu delivery! Ask my sous-chef!"
"Your sous-chef was on a smoke break on the eastern terrace, verified by three cameras," Dominic replied, his voice devoid of emotion. He stepped around the desk, closing the distance between himself and Victor. "Which leaves you, cousin. Or someone you let through the side gates with a master key fob."
Victor stepped back until the edge of the leather chair pressed against his legs. "You have no proof! This is insane! You're blaming family over the word of a housekeeper's toddler?!"
"That toddler saved my son's life," Dominic snarled, the mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal the terrifying predator beneath. "While you, Victor, have been systematically siphoning funds from the shipping accounts to cover your gambling debts with the Russian syndicate in Brighton Beach."
Victor’s face turned the color of chalk. The denial died on his lips.
"They... they threatened me," Victor stammered, his voice dropping to a pathetic whisper. "The Russians... they said if I didn't help them weaken your inner circle, if I didn't create a distraction that would force you to step down from the board, they would take everything. They didn't say anything about killing the boy! I swear to God, Victor Jr., they just said they wanted him incapacitated for a few hours so the shipping merger vote would fail!"
Dominic stood over him, towering by a full head. The silence in the library was absolute, broken only by the crackle of the log in the fireplace.
"You traded my son's life for your gambling markers," Dominic whispered.
"Dominic—"
"Marcus!"
The heavy door swung open instantly. Marcus stood in the frame, flanked by two armed guards in dark suits.
"Take Victor to the lower warehouse on the Hudson," Dominic ordered, not breaking eye contact with his trembling cousin. "Lock him in the holding room. Let him think about shipping logistics until I decide whether to feed him to the fishes or hand him over to the federal indictment bureau."
"And Gustave?" Marcus asked, glancing at the weeping chef still kneeling on the floor.
"Check his financial records. If he took a single ruble from the Brighton Beach crew, break his hands. If he’s clean, fire him and put him on a flight back to Lyon tonight. He never works in this city again."
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As the guards hauled Victor away, screaming and thrashing against their grip, Dominic walked back to the window, staring out into the dark, rain-slicked gardens. The snake had been rooted out from within the house, but as he looked at his reflection in the glass, a cold realization settled over him.
The Russians hadn't acted alone. Victor was too cowardly to orchestrate a hardware splice on his own. Someone else was pulling the strings from the shadows—someone who knew every security blind spot on the Moretti estate. And that meant the war had only just begun.
