Chapter 3 - THE INTERROGATION IN THE BASEMENTThe luxury mansion was no longer a home; it was a black site.
Julian, Arthur, and David were bound to heavy mahogany chairs in their own expansive wine cellar. Thousands of bottles of vintage wine lined the walls—a testament to decades of obscene wealth built on the backs of misery.
Julian was sobbing openly now, his designer shirt stained with dust and his face bruised from where Marcus had dropped him.
“Please... please, I have money! I can give you millions! Just let me go!” Julian wailed, thrashing against the heavy zip-ties biting into his wrists.
I walked down the cellar stairs, my boots clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. In my hand, I held a thick manila folder stamped with red classification seals.
I tossed it onto the tasting table right in front of Arthur.
“Read it, Arthur,” I commanded.
Arthur stared at the folder, his hands shaking so badly he could barely untie the string. He pulled out a stack of medical records, photographs, and legal documents.
“What... what is this?” Arthur whispered.
“Those are the records of the last three women Julian married,” I said flatly. “Or rather, the women before Audrey. Rich heiresses, independent professionals, women with assets. Each one of them ‘mysteriously vanished’ or suffered ‘fatal accidents’ after signing over their estates to the Thorne family trust.”
Julian stopped crying. His head snapped up, terror written across his face.
“You didn't think I spent eight months sitting on my hands, did you?” I leaned against the table, staring down at Julian. “When Audrey stopped answering my calls, I didn't call the local police because I knew your family owned half the county judge's bench. Instead, I called my old intelligence contacts at Langley and the Pentagon. We dug up your family’s graveyard, Julian.”
Miriam, who had been locked in the corner by a female operative, shrieked in horror. “You're lying! You have no proof!”
“Proof?” Marcus stepped out from the dark corner of the cellar holding a rugged military laptop. He tapped the screen, and a recorded video feed began to play overhead on the smart-home projection screen installed in the ceiling.
It was footage from a hidden camera inside the very room where Audrey had been kept.
The audio filled the cellar crystal clear: Julian laughing as he struck Audrey across the face, mocking her father, boasting about how the "old veteran" would never find her tomb.
Arthur closed his eyes, realizing the game was over. The Thorne name, built over a century of ruthless power, had just been incinerated in less than an hour.
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“You ruined us,” Arthur muttered, a hollow, broken sound escaping his lips. “Everything we built... gone.”
“You didn't build an empire,” I said, walking toward the cellar stairs. “You built a slaughterhouse. And cleanup crew is already here.”
