Chapter 4 - The House on 22nd StreetThe basement beneath the abandoned brick warehouse on 22nd Street smelled of damp concrete, rust, and old oil. It was not a torture dungeon straight out of a medieval romance novel; Adrian Cole was far too methodical for crude iron maiden theatrics. It was worse than that. It was clinical, quiet, and completely isolated from the rest of the world.
Richard Bennett sat tied securely to a heavy wooden chair, a strip of grey duct tape silenced across his mouth, his expensive Italian suit wrinkled and stained with garage dust.
A single overhead bulb cast a harsh, yellow circle of light over him.
The heavy steel door at the top of the concrete staircase creaked open. Footsteps echoed—slow, measured, deliberate.
Adrian Cole descended the stairs, carrying a fresh cup of black coffee in one hand. He stopped a few feet in front of Richard, taking a slow sip before setting the paper cup down on an upturned wooden crate.
Adrian reached out, grabbed the edge of the duct tape on Richard’s face, and ripped it off in one sharp, fluid motion.
Richard gasped, his breath hitching, a string of curses tearing from his throat. "You psychotic bastard! You’ll rot in federal prison for this! Kidnapping? Extortion? The FBI will have you in a federal penitentiary before the week is out!"
Adrian pulled up a metal folding chair, sat down backward with his arms resting over the top rail, and looked at Richard with mild, almost academic curiosity.
"The FBI, Richard?" Adrian asked calmly. "Let’s talk about federal agencies for a moment. Specifically, the IRS division that audits overseas shell corporations. Or perhaps the DEA task force currently reviewing the shipping manifests of every container ship that docked at your West Side pier over the last three years."
Richard stopped shouting. His eyes darted nervously around the dim room. "What... what are you talking about?"
"I’m talking about accountability," Adrian said, leaning his chin on his crossed arms. "For six years, you built a routine. You came home from your legitimate-looking offices, poured yourself a scotch, and took out the frustrations of a mediocre life on a woman who weighed half your size. You broke her ribs. You bruised her face. You convinced her that if she ever walked out that door, you would hunt her down and destroy whatever was left of her soul."
"She’s my wife!" Richard snarled, veins bulging in his neck. "She belongs to me! What happens inside my house is none of your damn business, Cole!"
Adrian didn’t flinch. He didn’t raise his voice. He simply reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the exact stack of photographs Dr. Emily Carter had brought him, and tossed them one by one onto Richard’s lap.
Photograph after photograph spilled across Richard’s thighs—the purple handprint, the boot-shaped bruise on the ribs, the swollen, blackened eye.
"Look at them, Richard," Adrian whispered.
Richard stared down at the images, his jaw clenching. "She fell. She’s clumsy. She’s always falling down stairs."
In a blur of motion, Adrian was out of his chair. His hand shot out, gripping Richard by the expensive silk lapels of his suit and hauling him forward so violently the wooden chair legs screeched against the concrete.
Adrian’s face was inches from Richard’s, his gray eyes burning with cold, incandescent fury.
"My mother fell down a flight of stairs when I was nine years old, Richard," Adrian said, his voice dropping into a terrifying, lethal whisper. "My father told everyone it was an accident. He told the police she slipped while carrying laundry. I sat on the stairs and watched the blood pool on the linoleum for three days before anyone cleaned it up."
Adrian’s grip tightened until Richard’s face turned purple.
"I swore to myself, on the day they put her in the ground, that no man would ever lay his hands on a woman in this city and walk away believing the world would look the other way."
Adrian shoved Richard back, sending the chair rocking precariously before slamming back onto all four legs. Richard coughed, gasping for air, trembling from head to toe.
"You’re not going to kill me?" Richard choked out, terror finally breaking through his defiance.
"Kill you?" Adrian picked up his coffee cup and took another sip. "As I told Dr. Carter, death is too easy. It’s an exit. You don't get an exit, Richard."
Adrian turned toward the stairs.
"Marcus," Adrian called out.
May you like
The heavy steel door opened, and Marcus stepped in, carrying a heavy leather briefcase.
"Show Mr. Bennett his new accommodations," Adrian said, walking toward the exit without looking back. "And make sure he has plenty of time to look at the pictures."
