Chapter 4 - The Interrogation Room
The bomb had been neutralized by Vane’s explosives expert with twelve seconds to spare, but the estate was now a war zone of shadows and shouted orders. The guests had been evacuated into the reinforced underground wine cellars, screaming and crying in their designer gowns. The Falconee loyalists who had accompanied Aldo had turned their weapons on the Marquetti guards, plunging the coastal gardens into a chaotic firefight of flashbangs, shattered glass, and screaming sirens.
Clara sat in the basement security office, her hands cuffed to a heavy steel chair bolted to the concrete floor.
The room was freezing. A single naked bulb swung overhead, casting long, jittery shadows against the damp stone walls. The door unlocked with a heavy pneumatic hiss, and Adrienne Marquetti stepped inside. He had a smear of dark blood across his white shirt cuff—not his own—and his tuxedo jacket was gone, revealing broad, muscled shoulders encased in a tight black vest holster.
He pulled up a metal chair, sat down backward straddling it, and rested his forearms on the backrest. He stared at Clara in silence for a full minute, letting the oppressive atmosphere suffocate any defiance she might have left.
“The bomb was set to detonate at precisely ten-fifteen,” Adrienne said softly, his voice dangerously smooth. “Right when my mother and I were scheduled to cut the cake. Aldo Falconee has been our accountant for twenty years. He helped my father launder millions. He sat at our Sunday dinners. And yet, an eighteen-dollar-an-hour maid who was fired this morning walks past a rose hedge and sniffs out a professional hit.”
Clara tilted her head up, her wrists rattling against the cuffs. “Your mother thought I was a thief because a crystal vase slipped out of my soapy hands. She didn't look at people. None of you do. You look at bank accounts, last names, and pedigree. You don't smell the blood on the people standing right next to you.”
“You knew the smell of gun oil,” Adrienne noted, narrowing his eyes. “Not hunting rifle oil. Military-grade Ballistol. The kind used by syndicate enforcers and black-ops mercenaries. Where does a maid learn that kind of olfactory education, Clara?”
Clara stiffened. Her eyes darted away from his piercing stare, focusing on a crack in the concrete wall. “My father worked in the dockyards before the syndicate took them over. He cleaned guns for men who didn't come back home. I grew up around the smell of death, Mr. Marquetti. It leaves a stain that soap can’t wash off.”
“A convenient backstory,” Adrienne murmured, standing up slowly. He walked around her chair, his footsteps echoing in the small room. He stopped behind her, leaning down so his lips were dangerously close to her ear. “My men are tearing the coastal woods apart looking for Aldo. If he gets to his boat, he escapes to Sicily with half of our offshore accounts and the Falconee family’s blessing for a full-scale war.”
“Then untie me,” Clara whispered.
Adrienne paused. “Why should I? For all I know, you’re Aldo’s spotter. You created the distraction so he could plant the device.”
“If I was his spotter, I wouldn’t have told Vane where the bomb was,” Clara said, her voice dripping with acid sarcasm. “I would have let you all turn into confetti in the garden. Untie these cuffs, Mr. Marquetti. Aldo is heading for the old smuggler’s cave down by the sea stacks. The gate is locked with an electronic keypad he installed himself six months ago—using a code only his personal accountants knew.”
Adrienne straightened up. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a small brass key, and unlocked the handcuffs with a sharp twist.
As Clara rubbed her chafed wrists, Adrienne pulled a sleek, suppressed 9mm pistol from his belt and laid it flat on the metal table between them.
“If you try to run, Vane will put a bullet through your spine before you hit the door,” Adrienne said, his tone flat and emotionless. “If you lead me to Aldo, and you’re telling the truth... I’ll pay off your mother’s hospital bills for the rest of her natural life. And I’ll give you a position in this house that my mother will never dare question again.”
May you like
Clara picked up the pistol, feeling the familiar, heavy balance of the weapon in her palm. She looked up at the most dangerous man on the eastern seaboard and gave a cold, humorless smile.
“Deal.”
