Chapter 4 – The Interrogation in the Warehouse
The heavy mahogany door of Roman’s private suite clicked shut, the sound of the deadbolt locking from the outside echoing like a gunshot.
I stood in the center of the massive, opulent bedroom, trembling uncontrollably.
Emma was sitting on the edge of the king-sized bed, clutching a plush throw pillow to her chest. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying.
“Mom,” Emma whispered, her voice cracking. “What’s happening? Why are there guards outside the door?”
I rushed over to her, wrapping my arms tightly around her shoulders, burying my face in her hair. She smelled like vanilla and rain. My beautiful, innocent daughter, dragged into a nightmare because her father couldn’t resist the allure of dirty money.
“We’re safe here, baby,” I promised, though my own voice betrayed my terror. “Roman is handling it.”
“Handling what?” Emma pleaded, pulling back to look at me. “Is Dad in trouble?”
I looked into her tear-filled brown eyes, grappling with how much to tell her. I couldn’t let her believe her father was just a misunderstood businessman anymore. She needed to know the truth to stay safe.
“Your father wasn’t just stealing from us, Emma,” I said softly, holding her hands. “He was laundering money for very dangerous people. The kind of people who kill to protect their secrets.”
Emma gasped, covering her mouth. “The mafia?”
“Worse,” I admitted, my stomach churning. “A cartel.”
Emma’s face drained of all color. “Oh my god. Mom, they’re going to kill him.”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Roman’s cold, lethal promise echoed in my mind.
“If he doesn’t give me the right answer, your daughter is going to be an orphan by sunrise.”
“Try to sleep, sweetheart,” I urged, gently pushing her back against the pillows. “We’re safe in this house. Roman promised.”
Emma curled into a tight ball, weeping silently into the blankets. I sat beside her, stroking her hair until her exhaustion finally pulled her into a fitful sleep.
I couldn’t sleep.
I paced the length of the luxurious suite, my bare feet sinking into the thick carpet. The walls were lined with dark wood paneling, massive bookshelves filled with first editions, and a sprawling view of the Chicago skyline through bulletproof glass.
It was a fortress. But it felt like a cage.
I checked the antique clock on the mantelpiece.
3:15 AM.
Roman had been gone for two hours.
Somewhere in the city, the man I had spent twenty-one years with was strapped to a chair, facing the wrath of the Don of Chicago. Despite everything Steven had done to me, despite the lies and the theft, a small, pathetic part of my heart ached at the thought of him being tortured.
He was still Emma’s father.
Suddenly, my cell phone vibrated violently in my pocket.
I jumped, yanking it out. It was a restricted number.
I hesitated, then answered, pressing the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Laura,” a deep, grating voice whispered. It was the same distorted voice from the town car.
“I told you, I don’t have the mug!” I panicked, keeping my voice low so I wouldn’t wake Emma. “Roman Castellano has it!”
“I know he has it,” the voice sneered. “My spotters watched him leave the estate an hour ago. Which means he’s distracted.”
My blood ran ice-cold. “What do you want?”
“I warned you what would happen if you told him,” the voice said coldly. “Now, the deal has changed. I don’t just want the mug anymore, Laura. I want the girl.”
I stopped breathing. “Emma? No! Leave her alone!”
“The cartel doesn’t leave loose ends,” the voice hissed. “Steven was foolish enough to put her name on the loan documents to fund his little house purchase. She’s financially tied to the laundered money. She is a liability.”
“I won’t let you near her!” I cried, rushing to the bed and standing protectively over my sleeping daughter.
“You don’t have a choice,” the voice mocked. “The Castellano guards outside your door? They aren’t Roman’s most loyal men. They’re mercenaries. And they just received a very lucrative wire transfer from my employers.”
A heavy, metallic clack echoed from the hallway.
The sound of the deadbolt unlocking.
“Run, Laura,” the voice laughed softly before the line went dead.
I dropped the phone.
“Emma! Wake up!” I screamed, grabbing her arm and hauling her off the bed.
“Mom? What is it?!” Emma panicked, stumbling to her feet.
The heavy mahogany door of the suite burst open.
Two massive guards in black tactical gear stepped into the room. They weren’t holding the standard-issue sidearms Roman’s men carried. They were holding silenced submachine guns.
“Don’t scream,” the lead guard ordered, raising his weapon, aiming it directly at Emma’s chest. “Walk toward the door quietly, and your mother lives.”
“No!” I shrieked, throwing my body completely in front of Emma, shielding her with my back. “Take me! Leave her alone!”
“Move, lady,” the guard growled, stepping forward and shoving me hard with the barrel of his gun.
I stumbled backward, hitting the edge of the nightstand. The heavy brass lamp wobbled violently.
I didn’t think. I reacted with pure, maternal desperation.
I grabbed the heavy brass lamp and swung it with every ounce of strength I possessed.
The heavy metal base slammed directly into the side of the lead guard’s head.
He groaned, his eyes rolling back as he collapsed heavily onto the thick carpet, dropping his weapon.
The second guard cursed, raising his gun to shoot me.
Before he could pull the trigger, a deafening, thunderous roar echoed from the hallway.
BANG.
The second guard jerked violently forward, a blossom of dark red expanding across his chest. He collapsed to the floor, dead before he hit the ground.
I screamed, covering my ears, pulling Emma down with me behind the bed.
Smoke drifted into the bedroom from the hallway.
Standing in the doorway, holding a smoking, heavy revolver, was a woman I had never seen before.
She was older, perhaps in her late sixties, with elegant, silver hair pinned up in a French twist. She wore a silk nightgown and a tailored cashmere robe. Despite the weapon in her hand, she possessed an undeniable, aristocratic grace.
She lowered the revolver, looking at the two dead men on the floor with absolute disgust.
“Amateurs,” she muttered, her voice thick with a refined Italian accent.
She looked up, her sharp, dark eyes finding me and Emma huddled behind the bed.
“Are you Laura?” she asked calmly, stepping over the bodies.
“Yes,” I breathed, trembling violently. “Who are you?”
The woman offered a small, polite smile.
“My name is Sofia Castellano,” she said, placing the revolver on the nightstand. “I am Roman’s mother. And nobody murders guests in my home.”
I stared at her, stunned. Roman had never mentioned his mother. I thought she had passed away.
“You… you saved us,” Emma whispered, crying softly into my shoulder.
“I protected my son’s investments,” Sofia corrected smoothly, pulling a sleek smartphone from her robe pocket. “Roman called me twenty minutes ago. He realized there was a leak in his security detail when Steven Mitchell confessed.”
“Steven confessed?” I asked, my heart hammering.
Sofia nodded, dialing a number. “Yes. Under severe duress, I imagine. He gave up the name of his handler. The man who orchestrated the laundering and the assassination attempt on my son tonight.”
She put the phone to her ear.
“Marco,” Sofia ordered, her tone shifting to absolute authority. “The rats in the east wing have been exterminated. Send a cleanup crew to Roman’s suite.”
She paused, listening to the voice on the other end.
“Good,” Sofia said, her eyes narrowing. “Tell Roman we have the name.”
She hung up the phone and looked at me.
“Who is it?” I asked, terrified of the answer.
“The man who called you,” Sofia explained, walking toward the window and looking out over the dark estate. “The man who corrupted your husband and sold out the Chicago syndicate to the Cartel.”
She turned back to me, her dark eyes filled with a terrifying, ancient fury.
“It is my brother,” Sofia whispered. “Antonio.”
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