Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Dark
The East Wing lounge was normally a sanctuary of quiet luxury, featuring Persian rugs, leather armchairs, a mahogany wet bar, and a massive stone fireplace. Tonight, it was a pressure cooker of panic and suppressed rage.
When I swiped my keycard and pushed the heavy oak doors open, the angry murmur of a hundred wealthy socialites died instantly.
Four of my armed security guards stood near the exits, assault rifles held at low-ready. In the center of the room, Senator Arthur Vance was standing by the fireplace, adjusting his silk tie with a practiced, arrogant air of calm. He looked up as I entered, a patronizing smile playing at the corners of his thin mouth.
“Ah, Dominic,” Arthur said, spreading his hands as if greeting an old friend at a country club. “I must say, this dramatic little lockdown is getting entirely out of hand. My constituents are going to hear about being held hostage in your home like common criminals. I demand you open these doors immediately.”
I didn't answer right away. I walked slowly across the Persian rug, the soft click of my leather shoes sounding like ticking clock hands in the tense silence of the room. The guests parted before me, shrinking back against the walls, sensing the coiled spring of violence inside me.
I stopped three feet away from Arthur.
I looked at his expensive suit, his silver-streaked hair, the politician's smile that had won him three terms in office.
“Julian sends his regards,” I said quietly.
The smile on Arthur's face flickered for a fraction of a second—just a micro-expression of shock—before he forced it back into place. He chuckled, a dry, nervous sound.
“I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about, Dominic. You've clearly lost your mind. Grief and stress have addled your brain since Elena passed, and now this childish paranoia—”
Before he could finish the sentence, I moved.
My right hand shot out, grabbing him by the silk lapels of his jacket. With a sudden, explosive surge of strength, I hauled him off his feet and slammed him backward against the heavy stone mantle of the fireplace.
Clang!
A decorative brass poker fell from its stand and clattered onto the hearth.
Gasps erupted from the surrounding women. Several men stepped forward as if to intervene, but a single glare from Vincent—who had followed me into the room with his rifle raised—froze them in their tracks.
Arthur’s face turned purple, his hands clawing uselessly at my wrists. “Dominic! Have you lost your mind? Unhand me this instant, or I’ll have your license revoked, your businesses audited, your entire life dismantled piece by piece!”
“You tried to kill my son, Arthur,” I whispered, leaning in so close our noses almost touched. The heat radiating off my body was palpable. “You sent your dishonorably discharged, mercenary brother into my kitchen to poison a seven-year-old boy's birthday cake so you could seize my corporate holdings through probate law.”
“That’s... that’s an insane fabrication!” Arthur choked out, his eyes bulging as my grip tightened around his collar. “You have no proof! You’re a thug! A glorified shipping racketeer playing lord of the manor!”
“Vincent,” I called out without breaking eye contact with the senator.
“Boss?”
“Play the footage.”
Vincent pulled a ruggedized tactical pad from his belt, tapped the screen, and aimed it toward the center of the room. The high-definition video of Julian Vance walking through the service corridor at 4:15 PM, carrying the silver metallic case, projected onto the wall above the fireplace.
The color drained entirely from Arthur’s face. The arrogant politician vanished, replaced by a cornered rat realizing the trap had snapped shut.
“Recognize him, Arthur?” I asked softly. “That’s your brother. The same brother who spent three years in an English prison before you pulled political strings to get him released quietly. The same brother who checked into a Manhattan hotel under a false name yesterday using a credit card linked directly to your secondary campaign slush fund.”
The room fell into an absolute, graveyard silence. The high-society guests who had been glaring at me a moment ago were now staring at Senator Vance with expressions of absolute horror and revulsion.
“You... you calculated bast—” Arthur started to hiss.
I didn't let him finish. I slammed him against the stone mantle again, the impact rattling his teeth.
“Where is he?” I demanded.
“I don't know what you—”
“Where is Julian?”
“I swear to God, Dominic, I don't know! He told me he was going to send a message, he said he was going to force you to negotiate—”
“Negotiate?” I let out a dark, cold laugh. “By murdering a child? You think this is a corporate buyout negotiation?”
Before Arthur could reply, my earpiece buzzed to life.
“Boss,” Vincent’s voice crackled through the comms, coming from the command center upstairs. “We have movement on the western perimeter. One of our exterior patrol units just intercepted a black van trying to break through the gate near the old greenhouse. They caught the driver.”
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“Is it Julian?” I asked, keeping my grip locked on Arthur’s collar.
“Negative, boss. It’s not Julian. But you need to see this feed right now. Bring Arthur to the monitor room. You’re going to want to see who was funding the entire operation.”
