Chapter 4 - The Confession in the Cellar
The sub-level holding cells beneath the Alpine estate were cold, damp, and smelled of rust and despair.
Guard Miller sat strapped to an industrial steel chair, his right knee bandaged clumsily, shivering beneath the harsh fluorescent lights. Blood stained the grey concrete floor around his boots.
I stood before him, slowly removing my leather gloves and laying them on a stainless-steel medical tray. Marco stood silently in the corner, holding a heavy iron wrench.
“Four years, Miller,” I said quietly, leaning against the edge of the metal table. “I paid your mother’s medical bills in Zurich. I trusted you with the outer perimeter codes. I treated you like family.”
“Family?” Miller spat a glob of blood onto the concrete, laughing bitterly. “You don't have family, Moretti. You have property. You have hostages.”
“Who paid you?”
“Go to hell.”
I didn't blink. I didn't raise my voice. I simply nodded to Marco.
Marco stepped forward, swinging the heavy iron wrench with casual precision, smashing it directly into the steel armrest inches from Miller’s hand. The deafening clang echoed through the concrete cell, causing Miller to flinch violently, his tough facade cracking instantly.
“Wait! Wait!” Miller screamed, holding up his good hand. “I’ll talk! Just don't... please.”
“Name,” I said.
“Vasiliev,” Miller panted, tears mixing with the sweat and blood on his face. “Viktor Vasiliev’s people. They... they contacted me three weeks ago through an encrypted comms drop. They said they didn't want to kill you, Moretti. They wanted to break you.”
“Break me through my children.”
“They said... if they could make your babies scream night after night without leaving a single mark or a single trace of physical illness, you’d start tearing your own empire apart looking for ghosts,” Miller sobbed. “They said it was just psychological warfare. A warning.”
“A warning for what?”
“For the shipments coming into Port Newark next Friday,” Miller cried out. “They’re moving in on your northern territory, Moretti. They knew you wouldn't focus on the ports if your house was burning down from the inside.”
I stared at the broken man for a long, agonizing moment.
Port Newark. The shipping lanes that supplied forty percent of the eastern seaboard’s import logistics. Viktor Vasiliev thought he could outmaneuver me while my family was in distress.
“Miller,” I said softly, picking up my leather gloves from the tray.
May you like
“Please... boss... you said if I talked—”
“I said I’d listen,” I corrected, slipping my gloves back onto my hands. I turned to Marco. “Keep him breathing. We’re going to need him when we pay Viktor a visit.”
