Chapter 3 - The Interrogation at the Rail Yards
The abandoned freight terminal on 14th Street smelled of rust, damp diesel fuel, and fifty years of slaughterhouse history. Cold rain pounded against the corrugated iron roof, creating a deafening drumbeat that drowned out the city outside.
In the center of the vast, hollow warehouse, a single overhead bulb swung on a frayed cord, casting long, dramatic shadows across the concrete floor.
Victor Hale was tied to a heavy wooden chair. His three-thousand-dollar suit was ripped at the shoulder, covered in dirt and oil stains. His nose was bloody, and his polished demeanor was completely gone.
Standing around him were six of Dominic’s most senior lieutenants—men who managed the docks, the trucking routes, the waste management contracts, and the heavy security of the Moretti empire. They were quiet, solemn, and brutal.
The iron doors of the warehouse rolled open with a loud, metallic screech.
Dominic Moretti walked inside. He had removed his fine charcoal jacket, wearing only his dark vest, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his forearms. He walked slowly across the concrete until he stood directly in front of the chair.
Victor looked up, gasping for air, his eyes wide with wild, unadulterated terror.
"Dominic! Dominic, listen to me!" Victor begged, his voice echoing off the high iron rafters. "It wasn't my idea! I was forced into it! You have to believe me!"
Dominic pulled a folding metal chair from the shadows, set it down three feet in front of Victor, and sat down. He crossed his legs, placed his hands on his knees, and stared at his attorney with a cold, terrifying serenity.
"Who paid you, Victor?" Dominic asked softly.
"Nobody! Nobody paid me!"
Dominic raised his left hand slightly.
Leo stepped forward out of the dark, holding a heavy iron wrench. Without a word, Leo brought the wrench down squarely on Victor’s right knee.
CRACK.
A shriek tore from Victor’s throat—a sound so sharp it rattled the loose tin sheets on the roof. He writhed in the chair, sobbing, sweat and tears pouring down his pale face as he pulled against the heavy rope restraints.
"I asked a question, Victor," Dominic said, his tone entirely unchanged. "Who paid you?"
"The... the Commission!" Victor screamed, choking on his own breath. "The Genovese syndicate out of New York! They... they offered me five million dollars and the managing directorship of their Midwest shell companies! They said you were getting old, Dominic! They said the feds were going to pin the racketeering charges on you anyway!"
Dominic nodded slowly. "And Claire Miller?"
Victor flinched, his eyes darting away. "She... she found the offshore accounts," he whispered, his voice trembling. "She was filing the tax exhibits for your trial last week. She saw the three-million-dollar wire transfer from Zurich into my personal account. She asked too many questions."
"So you poisoned her," Dominic stated.
"I didn't... I didn't want to kill her!" Victor wept. "I just needed her sick! I needed her out of the office for forty-eight hours so she couldn't testify to the grand jury if the verdict went wrong! I used a ricin derivative... a small dose... introduced into her morning coffee!"
Dominic felt a cold, sharp blade of rage cut through his gut, but his face remained a mask of iron.
"And her eight-year-old daughter?" Dominic asked, leaning closer until his face was inches from Victor's weeping eyes. "You went to an ICU room, threatened a dying mother, and gave an eight-year-old child a strip of duct tape to scare her into silence?"
"I had to protect myself!" Victor wailed. "She saw the tape in my briefcase! She was in the office when I assembled the device! She's just a child, Dominic! She doesn't understand how the world works!"
Dominic stood up slowly from his chair. He turned his back on Victor and walked toward the edge of the light circle.
"You're right, Victor," Dominic murmured, looking up at the rain falling through a crack in the roof. "She doesn't understand how the world works. She thinks that when bad men do bad things, the law comes and fixes it. She thinks that courage and truth are enough to save her mother."
Dominic turned back to face him, his eyes burning like coal.
"She doesn't know that in this city, courage only gets you killed unless you have someone behind you with enough iron to crush your enemies into dust."
Dominic looked at Leo.
"Is the FBI listening to the feed?" Dominic asked.
Leo pulled a small black receiver from his pocket and pressed a button. A voice cracked through the small speaker—the voice of Special Agent Marcus Vance, head of the FBI’s Chicago Organized Crime Task Force.
"We hear him loud and clear, Moretti," Agent Vance’s voice echoed over the receiver. "We’ve got the confession recorded on three separate channels. It's clean."
Victor’s eyes bulged in utter disbelief. "You... you brought the feds?"
Dominic walked back to Victor, leaning down so only the lawyer could hear him.
"You thought I was just a mobster, Victor," Dominic whispered. "You forgot that I'm a father. You forgot that thirty years ago, my own family was torn apart by snakes like you. I didn't beat the federal government today because I was lucky. I beat them because I know where the lines are drawn."
Dominic patted Victor gently on his bloody cheek.
"Agent Vance is outside with twenty tactical officers," Dominic said coldly. "He's going to arrest you for attempted murder, domestic terrorism, extortion, and poison administration. You will spend the rest of your life in a supermax facility where the Genovese family can't reach you, and where I won't have to waste a single bullet on your worthless hide."
May you like
Dominic turned his back and walked toward the heavy rolling iron doors.
"Leo," Dominic called out over his shoulder. "Give the feds the lawyer. Then get the cars ready. We have a syndicate in New York that needs to be erased."
