Chapter 4 - The Interrogation Room
Deep beneath the wine cellar of the Long Island estate, beneath layers of reinforced concrete and soundproofing foam, lay the chamber the Caruso family referred to simply as "The Vault."
Water dripped from an exposed copper pipe into a metal drain.
A man was tied to a cast-iron chair in the center of the damp room. He was battered, his lip split, an eye swollen shut, wearing the shredded remains of a high-end Italian suit. It was Marcus Vance, an underboss from the rival Moretti syndicate who had supposedly been brokering a peaceful shipping treaty with Vincent.
The heavy steel door swung open.
Vincent walked in. He had removed his jacket and rolled his white sleeves to his elbows, revealing the intricate black ink sprawling up his forearms—Latin scripture intertwined with the thorns of a crown. Behind him walked Dominic, carrying a leather case.
"Vincent," Vance gasped, spitting blood onto the concrete. "You're making a mistake. You can't touch me. The Commission guaranteed safe passage during negotiations!"
Vincent did not reply. He walked to a metal workbench, picked up a clean rag, and wiped a speck of dust from a pair of stainless steel shears.
"Who gave the shooter the security codes to the penthouse conference room?" Vincent asked, his tone polite, almost conversational.
"I don't know what you're talking about! It was an independent contractor! A rogue element!"
Vincent didn't raise his voice. He didn't scream. He simply walked behind the chair, placed his hand atop Vance’s head, and bent his thumb backward until the bone snapped with a sickening *crack*.
Vance let out an ear-piercing scream that rebounded off the damp walls.
"You are operating under a grave misunderstanding, Marcus," Vincent murmured in his ear. "If that bullet had hit me, this would be a business dispute. The Commission would intervene. We would sit at a table, count our dead, and divide the territory."
Vincent pulled the thumb further back. Vance sobbed, his heels drumming frantically against the chair legs.
"But that bullet did not hit me," Vincent whispered, and for the first time, a note of savage, unhinged fury bled through his words. "It struck Claire Bennett. It tore through her flesh. It stopped her heart on an operating table while I sat outside like a helpless beggar."
"It was Moretti!" Vance screamed, entirely broken. "Old man Moretti! But he had help! Someone on your council fed him the shifts! The security bypass codes were sold from inside your own house!"
Dominic stiffened behind Vincent. "A mole."
Vincent slowly released Vance’s mangled hand. He took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his fingers meticulously.
"Give me the name," Vincent ordered.
"Lorenzo," Vance gasped, tears streaming through the blood on his cheeks. "Lorenzo Conti. He wants the docks. Moretti promised him the north harbor if Caruso fell."
Vincent stared at Vance for three long seconds. The silence in the room was absolute.
"Dominic," Vincent said quietly.
"Yes, Boss?"
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"Clean this up. And send an invitation to Uncle Lorenzo. Tell him we are having a family dinner tomorrow night to celebrate Miss Bennett's miraculous recovery."
***
