Chapter 7 - The Interrogation in the Dark
Downstairs in the alley behind the tailoring shop, the rain continued to pour, turning the gutters into rushing streams of dirty water.
Sal stood beside the idling van belonging to Lowell’s enforcers, holding an umbrella in one hand while smoking a cigarette down to the filter. Inside the trunk, muffled thuds and frantic groans echoed against the metal hood as the two captured thugs realized they were trapped in the dark with no way out.
The rear door of the shop opened, and Tony Russo stepped out into the rain, wiping his hands on a clean white handkerchief.
“Dr. Morelli just cleared the perimeter block with a police escort,” Tony said, glancing toward the end of the alley where the flashing blue lights of a private medical van were finally cutting through the gloom. “He’s got his surgical team heading upstairs right now. Mrs. Carter is going to make it.”
Sal let out a long stream of smoke into the wet night air. “Good. Because the boss was about two minutes away from turning this whole neighborhood into a parking lot.”
“Where is he?” Tony asked, adjusting his trench coat.
“Still upstairs watching Morelli prep her for transport,” Sal replied. He tilted his head toward the trunk of the enforcers' car. “What about these two geniuses? Do we hand them over to Lowell’s captains as a message, or do we take them to the yard?”
Tony thought about it for a second, watching the rain beat against the puddles. Then he shook his head slowly.
“Neither,” Tony said, a cold, hard smile touching his lips. “Call Lowell. Tell him Vincent Torino wants to have a cup of coffee with him at the Golden Palm tomorrow morning at eight o’clock sharp. Tell him if he’s late, we’ll start delivering his crew back to him piece by piece in cardboard boxes.”
Sal chuckled darkly, pulling his phone from his pocket. “Now that is restaurant language.”
Upstairs in the apartment, Dr. Jonathan Morelli and two nurses worked with swift, surgical efficiency, stabilizing Elena’s crushed shoulder and administering an IV saline drip while preparing her for immediate transfer to St. Jude’s private clinic.
Vincent stood by the broken window, watching the rain streak down the glass. His vest was gone, his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, and his knuckles were smudged with dust and old soot.
He pulled out his phone and dialed a direct, encrypted number that hadn't been used in over five years.
It connected after three rings.
“Torino,” a gruff, elderly voice answered from the other end of the line—the voice of a retired federal judge living quietly in a fortified compound in rural Wisconsin.
“Judge, I need a favor,” Vincent said, his voice flat and uncompromising.
“At this hour? It must be expensive, Vincent.”
“Northstar Urban Renewal,” Vincent said, looking across the room where Elena was being gently lifted onto a medical stretcher. “I want every corporate filing, every offshore bank account, every political donation, and every land deed associated with that shell company placed on my desk by sunrise. And I want Lowell’s entire municipal portfolio frozen under federal investigation before the stock market opens tomorrow.”
There was a brief pause on the line, followed by a heavy, knowing sigh.
“Whose toes did they step on this time, Vincent?” the judge asked dryly.
Vincent watched as Dr. Morelli wheeled the stretcher toward the door, pausing to let Lily—who had somehow slipped away from Tony downstairs and run up the stairs—rush into the room, throwing her small arms around her mother’s uninjured side.
May you like
“They stepped on my city,” Vincent said quietly.
He hung up the phone, turned away from the window, and walked out into the hallway to lead his family home.
