Chapter 4 - The Interrogation
The wine cellar beneath the Valente mansion was not built for entertaining.
Located two levels below the kitchen, behind a four-hundred-pound reinforced steel door, the inner vault was designed to hold twenty thousand bottles of vintage Italian wine at a continuous fifty-two degrees. But tonight, the wooden racks had been pushed back against the damp stone walls, leaving a bare concrete floor illuminated by a single overhead bulb.
Julian Valente was tied to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the room. His jacket was gone, his silk tie loosened, his forehead slick with cold sweat.
Standing in the corner, out of the direct light, was Mara.
Roman had refused to let her leave. “You see things people miss,” he had told her on the stairs. “You stay.”
Franco stood beside a low table laid out with surgical instruments, a digital tablet, and Julian’s confiscated encrypted mobile phone.
Roman stood directly in front of his brother, holding a glass of iced water. He took a slow sip, his face unreadable.
“The phone was wiped remotely ten minutes after the lockdown was initiated,” Franco reported, tapping the tablet screen. “A kill-switch command sent from a burner tower in Queens. But our IT team recovered the last outgoing signal before the wipe.”
Roman looked at Julian. “Who did you text at three-fifteen PM, brother?”
Julian spat a tiny fleck of blood onto the concrete floor. “Do what you’re going to do, Roman. You think you’re invincible because you sit on top of the family throne? You’re a relic. You run this business like it’s 1990. The Morettis offered me sixty percent of the Manhattan dock contracts and political immunity from the Eastern District Prosecutor.”
“In exchange for my daughter’s life?” Roman’s voice was so soft it was almost a whisper—the dangerous, terrifying hush before a hurricane.
“She was never supposed to die!” Julian yelled, his composure finally shattering into jagged pieces. “The deal was a temporary incapacitation! An allergic reaction that would require hospitalization! In the chaos, Moretti’s team was going to leverage the medical transport to secure Sophia and force you to sign over the dock leases! It was supposed to be a trade! A clean transaction!”
“And the amygdalin?” Mara asked from the shadows, stepping forward into the pale light. “The lethal dose of cyanide extract in the second layer?”
Julian blinked, looking at Mara with genuine, bewildered shock. “What are you talking about?! Moretti swore it was standard almond paste! Just enough to trigger a skin rash and laryngeal swelling!”
Mara walked over to the table of instruments, picked up Dr. Mercer’s digital report printout, and held it in front of Julian’s face.
“Moretti lied to you,” Mara said coldly. “A medical transport carrying a child in full cardiac arrest due to cyanide poisoning doesn't go to a hospital. It goes to a morgue. Once Sophia was dead, Roman would have wiped out the Moretti family in a blind rage, triggering a full federal crackdown that would have put Roman in prison or a grave within forty-eight hours. And who would be left to inherit the entire Valente corporate empire, Mr. Valente?”
Julian’s face turned from pale to completely translucent.
The reality hit him like an iron bar to the ribs. He hadn't been a partner in a hostile corporate takeover. He had been a useful idiot set up to take the blame for the murder of his own niece, leaving the Moretti family free to collect the shattered pieces of the Valente empire once the bloodbath was over.
“They... they used me...” Julian whispered, his hands shaking frantically against the ropes binding his wrists. “Marco... Marco told me it was just leverage...”
Roman stepped forward, leaning down until his face was inches from Julian’s.
“Where is Marco Moretti right now?” Roman asked.
“He’s... he’s at the marina in Brooklyn,” Julian stammered, tears of sheer terror spilling over his eyes. “Pier 42. He’s waiting on his yacht, the Siren, for the call from the medical transport team to confirm Sophia was loaded into the ambulance.”
Roman stood up straight. He adjusted the cuffs of his dark jacket, turning his head toward Franco.
“Franco,” Roman said calmly.
“Yes, Boss?”
“Keep my brother and sister-in-law in this room until I return. Give them water. Nothing else.”
“And the guests in the ballroom, Mr. Valente?” Franco asked.
“Tell them the threat has been identified,” Roman ordered. “Serve them the finest champagne in the house. Tell them if anyone tries to leave before sunrise, their family name will be removed from the Westchester registry permanently.”
Roman turned and looked at Mara.
She was standing straight, her hands clasped in front of her crisp white apron, her blue nurse’s eyes clear, steady, and unblinking.
“Mara,” Roman said softly.
May you like
“Yes, Mr. Valente?”
“You’re coming with me to Brooklyn.”
