Chapter 4 - INTERROGATION UNDER THE MOONLIGHTThe man was tied securely to a sturdy mahogany chair in the mansion’s underground wine cellar—a damp, stone-vaulted room where the only things that aged were expensive vintages and terrible regrets.
Ricardo Bruno stood over him, methodically rolling up his shirt sleeves. His face was carved from granite, dusted with soot and salt spray from the harbor ambush. Luca Moretti stood by the heavy iron door, casually cleaning a bloody knuckle with a silk handkerchief.
"You picked a bad night to break into my house, friend," Ricardo said softly, his voice devoid of anger, which made it infinitely more terrifying.
The intruder—a scarred mercenary with a brutal Russian tattoo curling around his neck—spat a glob of blood onto the flagstone floor. "Go to hell, Bruno. You’re dead anyway. Marzio and the Vitalis have the council locked down. By sunrise, your assets are frozen, your guards are in ditches, and this house belongs to the new regime."
Ricardo didn't raise his voice. He didn't punch the man. Instead, he reached out, picked up a bottle of 1982 Brunello di Montalcino, and slowly set it on the oak barrel serving as an interrogation table.
"Marzio is a bookkeeper playing at being a general," Ricardo murmured, leaning down until his eyes were inches from the mercenary's. "He thinks power is about ledgers and territories. He doesn't understand that some things are personal."
"You think you’re untouchable because your brat finally blinked at a mutt?" the mercenary laughed, a harsh, jagged sound. "You're distracted. A distracted boss is a dead boss."
Ricardo’s hand shot out. In a blur of motion, he grabbed the man by the collar of his tactical vest, hauling him and the chair forward until the wood splintered against the stone floor.
"You stepped foot in my daughter’s nursery," Ricardo whispered, his voice vibrating with a quiet, apocalyptic fury. "You brought violence into a room where a little girl is just learning how to live."
Before the mercenary could reply, the heavy iron door of the cellar creaked open.
Step by deliberate step, Allesia walked down the stone stairs. She wasn't wearing her silk robe anymore; she wore a tailored black pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and in her right hand, she held the intruder's own suppressed pistol.
Ricardo looked up, a flicker of surprise in his dark eyes. "Allesia. Go back upstairs. This isn't a place for you."
"That man was five feet away from my daughter's crib," Allesia said, her voice entirely level, carrying a chilling authority that even Luca Moretti respected. She walked up to the bound mercenary, placed the barrel of the gun squarely against his left kneecap, and cocked the hammer.
The mercenary’s bravado instantly vanished. Sweat beaded across his scarred forehead, and his eyes went wide with blind panic.
"You have ten seconds," Allesia said, her finger resting lightly on the trigger, "to tell me every single name on Marzio’s payroll, every stash house the Vitalis are using, and where they’re holding the shipment from Pier 42. Or I swear to God, I’ll skip the kneecaps and aim straight for your tongue."
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The mercenary looked from Allesia’s unblinking eyes to Ricardo’s stony expression. He realized, with absolute certainty, that these two weren't just mob bosses—they were parents whose pack had been threatened. And a cornered wolf doesn't negotiate.
"Okay!" the man choked out, his voice cracking. "Okay! I'll talk! Just keep the gun away!"
