Chapter 6 - The Confession
We dragged Arthur Vance up to the private executive suite on the forty-second floor of the Drake Hotel, bypassing the glittering ballroom entirely.
Arthur sat slumped in a leather armchair, rubbing his bruised neck, glaring up at Dominic and me with eyes full of venom. His designer suit was rumpled, his silver hair disheveled. The aura of untouchable wealth had completely vanished, replaced by the squirming panic of a cornered rat.
“You can’t do this, Moretti,” Arthur hissed, his voice trembling. “The district attorney is dining upstairs right now. If I don't check in within ten minutes, federal marshals will raid every Moretti warehouse from here to Milwaukee.”
Dominic poured himself a glass of bourbon, ignoring Arthur completely. He walked over, handed a fresh glass to me, and leaned against the mahogany desk.
“Let him talk, Avery,” Dominic said smoothly. “He likes the sound of his own voice before he signs confessions.”
I took the glass, letting the warmth of the amber liquid soothe my nerves, though my adrenaline was still humming like a high-tension wire. I walked over and dropped a thick manila folder onto Arthur’s lap—the files I had pulled from his secure safe during the blackout.
Arthur looked down at the folder. His face drained of color.
“Where... where did you get this?” Arthur whispered.
“From your own safe, Arthur,” I said, leaning down until my face was inches from his. “Every offshore wire transfer, every bribed municipal inspector, and—most importantly—the internal audit report on the Halsted Street industrial accident from eight years ago.”
Arthur swallowed hard, his throat bobbing nervously. “That was an accident. The brakes on your father’s car failed—”
“My father’s brakes didn't fail,” I interrupted, my voice dropping into a lethal, quiet register. “The maintenance logs in this folder prove that your head of security personally cut the hydraulic lines three hours before my father met with the federal prosecutor. You murdered him because he found out you were dumping toxic chemical waste beneath the Halsted Street warehouses.”
Arthur opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He looked up at Dominic, desperate for an ally. “Dominic... you know how business works. We all cut corners. We all protect our interests. You can’t let her—shes a nobody—”
“She’s not a nobody, Arthur,” Dominic said, his voice suddenly hard as iron, stepping forward. “She’s my partner. And in my world, when someone kills a man’s friend—or a woman’s father—the debt has to be balanced.”
Dominic pulled a digital recorder from his pocket and tossed it onto Arthur’s lap, right on top of the incriminating files.
“You’re going to dictate a full, itemized confession into this recorder, Arthur,” Dominic instructed coldly. “Detailing how you embezzled municipal funds, how you ordered the elimination of Marcus Carter, and how you tried to frame the Moretti syndicate for your crimes.”
“I won't do it,” Arthur spat, shaking his head defiantly. “You’ll never make it out of this hotel alive if I—!”
I didn't let him finish. I grabbed the heavy crystal bourbon decanter off the desk, raised it high, and smashed it down onto the mahogany table precisely one inch from Arthur’s right hand, shattering the crystal into a thousand glittering shards that sprayed across his lap.
Arthur shrieked, jumping half out of his chair.
I leaned in close, my eyes locked onto his dilated pupils.
May you like
“You can talk into the recorder, Arthur,” I whispered, “or I can use that decanter to rearrange your teeth until you sing an opera. Your choice.”
Arthur looked at my face—at the absolute, terrifying absence of fear in my eyes—and finally broke. He reached out with a trembling hand, picked up the digital recorder, and pressed Record.
