Chapter 6 - A Mother's Phantom
The basement interrogation room of the Rossi estate was a windowless box of reinforced concrete and harsh fluorescent lights.
Dr. Gallagher was tied securely to a heavy metal chair, his white lab coat stained with blood from the wound on his head, his breathing coming in ragged, terrified gasps.
Lorenzo stood directly in front of him, leaning casually against the edge of a steel table, his arms crossed over his chest. He didn't yell. He didn't strike the doctor. His silence was infinitely more terrifying than any physical violence.
Standing in the shadows near the heavy steel door was Hunter, watching with wide, unblinking eyes.
“You were my chief pediatrician, Gallagher,” Lorenzo said, his voice dangerously soft. “I trusted you with my wife’s medical file when she was carrying my son. I paid your clinic double what Johns Hopkins offered you to stay in New York and watch over my bloodline.”
“Mr... Mr. Rossi, please,” Gallagher sobbed, tears streaming down his face as he slumped forward against the ropes. “I had no choice! They threatened my family! They said if I didn't help them orchestrate Leo’s slow decline, my daughter would—!”
“Who is they?” Lorenzo interrupted, stepping forward so fast the movement blurred. He grabbed Gallagher by the throat, lifting him half an inch out of the chair with one hand. “Give me a name.”
“Victor!” Gallagher choked out, his eyes bulging as he clawed desperately at Lorenzo’s wrist. “It was your cousin, Victor! He wanted the succession line cleared! He set up the car bomb that killed your wife, and he ordered me to poison the infant's formula so he could take control of the syndicate board!”
The name hung in the damp air of the bunker like the detonation of a bomb.
Victor.
Lorenzo’s own blood. The cousin who had stood beside him at Sophia’s funeral, holding a black umbrella over his shoulder, whispering condolences about family loyalty and vengeance against rival families.
Slowly, Lorenzo released his grip. Gallagher slumped back into the chair, coughing and gasping for air.
Lorenzo turned away, walking toward the far corner of the room. His broad shoulders were rigid, every muscle in his body coiled like a spring under immense pressure. He picked up a heavy iron wrench resting on a tool cart, weighing it in his hand with a terrifying, calm deliberation.
“Mr. Rossi,” Hunter spoke up from the shadows, stepping forward into the harsh fluorescent light.
Lorenzo stopped, turning his head slightly. “Go back to the master suite, Hunter. This isn't a place for you.”
“No,” she said, her voice unwavering, carrying a quiet strength that made Lorenzo pause. “He didn't just try to kill your son, Mr. Rossi. He tried to kill the baby I saved. He’s a monster in a white coat—the exact same kind of monster that let my little boy die on a sterile hospital table three weeks ago while nurses looked away.”
She walked closer, stopping just a few feet from the trembling doctor.
“You trusted titles,” Hunter said, looking directly at Lorenzo. “You trusted doctors, specialists, and family members because they wore expensive suits and spoke with polite accents. But evil doesn't look like a thug in an alley, Mr. Rossi. Evil looks like a man holding a silver pen, smiling while he watches a child starve to death.”
Lorenzo stared at her. The dark, frozen fury in his eyes flickered, replaced by a sudden, profound understanding. He walked over, setting the heavy iron wrench down on the table with a dull clank.
“You're right,” Lorenzo said quietly. Then, looking back at Gallagher, he raised his voice. “Guards.”
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Two massive men in tactical gear stepped into the room instantly.
“Take him down to the lower holding cells,” Lorenzo ordered coldly. “Keep him alive. I want him breathing when I tear Victor’s empire down brick by brick.”
