Chapter 3 - The Cellar Interrogation
The air in the subterranean cellar of the estate smelled of damp limestone, aged oak casks, and fear.
Marcus Hale was strapped to a heavy wooden chair in the center of the cold concrete floor, shivering in his silk undershirt and slacks. Water dripped from an exposed pipe somewhere in the shadows, a rhythmic, agonizing metronome. His left eye was swollen shut, and the arrogance that had defined his presence in the breakfast parlor had completely decomposed into frantic, stammering panic.
The heavy iron door groaned open.
Vittorio stepped down the stone stairs, his polished boots clicking deliberately against the concrete. Luca followed behind, carrying a polished leather case, which he placed on a wooden barrel before stepping back into the gloom.
Marcus flinched, straining against the heavy zip-ties securing his wrists to the arms of the chair. “Rossi! Listen to me! This has gone too far! My father has already noticed my car parked outside your gates! If I don't check in by noon—”
Vittorio pulled up an empty wooden crate, dragged it over, and sat down three feet in front of Marcus. He didn't speak. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small gold cigar cutter, and began methodically cleaning his fingernails with the tip of the miniature blade.
“You’re a civilized man, Vittorio,” Marcus pleaded, his voice cracking. “We do business! The harbor contracts—my father guaranteed the logistics board wouldn't inspect your container seals at Terminal 5! You kill me, and that entire network burns!”
“You laughed,” Vittorio said softly.
Marcus froze. “What?”
“This morning. When Bianca pushed my four-year-old child toward a dog bowl on the floor.” Vittorio looked up, his dark eyes void of humanity. “You leaned against the doorframe, you crossed your arms, and you laughed. You thought it was amusing.”
“It was just a joke!” Marcus shrieked, saliva flying from his lips. “Bianca was just messing with her! It was family discipline—I didn't touch the kid! I swear on my mother’s soul, I never laid a hand on her!”
Vittorio stood up. He walked over to the leather case on the barrel, unbuckled the brass straps, and opened the lid. Inside lay no weapons, no pliers, and no blades.
Inside sat three heavy, leather-bound corporate ledgers and a certified bank draft from the First National Bank of Zurich.
Vittorio picked up the bank draft and held it in front of Marcus’s good eye.
“Account 882-Alpha,” Vittorio read evenly. “A wire transfer of four point two million dollars, executed three days ago from your personal LLC into an offshore account registered under the name of Bianca Ashcroft. The memo line on the internal banking ledger read: Consulting retainer for primary succession acquisition.”
Marcus’s jaw dropped. The blood drained from his face so rapidly he looked like a corpse.
“You didn't just laugh at my daughter, Marcus,” Vittorio murmured, stepping closer until his face was inches from the trembling young man. “You and Bianca were planning to poison my evening scotch next Friday, pin the murder on an external cartel retaliation, and use Arthur Hale’s judicial influence to appoint Bianca as Lucy’s legal guardian. Within six months, you would have liquidated sixty percent of the Rossi shipping holdings directly into your father’s campaign accounts.”
Marcus began to weep, his chest heaving. “It was her idea! Bianca came to me! She said you were distracted, that you were losing your grip because of the grief! She said the mob was weak!”
“The mob is not weak,” Vittorio whispered, reaching out to gently pat Marcus’s bruised cheek. “We are simply patient. Luca?”
May you like
“Yes, Boss?”
“Call Councilman Hale. Tell him his son had a minor slip on the icy patio. Tell him to come to the estate alone. If he brings a single police car or city vehicle, tell him he will receive his son back in three separate cardboard boxes.”
