Chapter 7 - The Interrogation of Seacliff House
Within twenty minutes, the lower level of Seacliff House had been transformed into an interrogation bunker.
The storm raged outside, battering the glass doors of the library while Sal Mercer stood guard by the heavy oak entrance. Dante sat behind his mahogany desk, his hands clasped together, his face illuminated only by the green glow of a desk lamp.
Vivienne sat in a high-backed leather armchair near the fireplace, holding a cup of black coffee in hands that no longer shook. She had changed into a fresh black sweater, but the faint scent of antiseptic and blood still lingered around her. Leo was sleeping peacefully upstairs, monitored by two trusted guards with explicit orders to shoot anyone who approached the nursery door.
Clara Bell sat in a wooden chair in the center of the room. Her hands were cuffed behind her back with heavy plastic zipties, her angelic facade completely stripped away, revealing the twitchy, desperate cornered animal beneath.
"Who paid you?" Dante asked.
The question was simple. There was no shouting, no theatrical rage. Just the flat, heavy certainty of an executioner.
"I don't know what you're talking about!" Clara shrieked, her voice bouncing off the high bookshelves. "I loved that boy! I raised him! Ask anyone in the house—I would never hurt Leo!"
"You watched him every day for six months," Dante said quietly. "You knew his schedule down to the minute. You knew when the night guard rotated his patrol at 11:15 PM during a storm. You waited until the weather hit its peak so the thunder would mask the sound of a dying child."
"I didn't do anything!"
"Sal," Dante murmured without looking up.
Sal stepped forward, placing a heavy manila folder on the desk. He opened it to reveal a series of printed bank statements and intercepted digital logs.
"We pulled the metadata from your phone an hour ago, Clara," Sal said smoothly. "Turns out, a modest account in the Cayman Islands received a wire transfer of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars yesterday afternoon. Origin? A shell corporation tied directly to the Northern Corridor Alliance."
Clara’s breath hitched. Her eyes darted wildly toward the door, then back to Dante.
"Your father’s rivals didn't just want to fracture our alliance, Dante," Vivienne spoke from her chair by the fire, her voice cutting through the tense air like a scalpel. "They wanted an inside agent to eliminate the heir to the Moretti empire from within, making it look like an internal medical emergency or a tragic accident. When I walked in and caught her administering the protein dose, she improvised. She knew if she screamed first, your violent instincts would do the execution for her."
Dante stood up slowly from his desk. He walked around the mahogany barrier until he stood directly over Clara.
"My father’s enemies thought they could use my own house against me," Dante said, his voice barely above a whisper. "They thought my paranoia would make me kill my own fiancée while the real killer walked out the front gate."
He reached down, grabbing Clara by the collar of her blouse and hauling her out of the chair with effortless strength. She let out a choked gasp, her feet barely touching the Persian rug.
"Please, Dante—Mr. Moretti—don't!" she sobbed, tears streaming down her face. "They threatened my brother! They said if I didn't get rid of the baby, they would kill him in Boston! I had no choice!"
"You always have a choice, Clara," Dante said, his dark eyes devoid of any human warmth. "You just chose the wrong side of the blade."
He signaled to Sal with a flick of his wrist. Sal opened the library door, and two armed enforcers stepped in, their faces grim and impassive.
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"Take her down to the lower warehouse," Dante commanded. "Let her think about brotherhood and loyalty while she waits for Everett Cross to answer my phone call."
"Dante—no! Please!" Clara’s screams echoed down the stone corridor as the enforcers dragged her out into the freezing night, the heavy oak door slamming shut behind them with a final, echoing thud.
