Chapter 2 - The Interrogation and the LedgerThe central study of the Wolf estate was built like a fortress.
Thick oak paneling lined the walls, heavy velvet curtains blocked out the torrential rain hammering against the bulletproof windows, and a vast mahogany desk sat beneath a portrait of Gideon’s grandfather. On the wall behind the desk hung three security monitors displaying live feeds of the estate perimeter, the harbor docks, and the main entrance.
Two broad-shouldered men in dark suits dragged Chef Paul Renner into the room, throwing him onto his knees in front of the desk.
Paul was trembling violently. His chef's whites were stained with sweat, his chef's hat missing, his eyes darting frantically around the room until they landed on Norah standing beside Arthur Finch.
"Arthur! Please!" Paul stammered, his hands raised in supplication. "What is this?! I was just preparing the breakfast prep for tomorrow! These men grabbed me—"
"Shut up, Paul," Arthur said softly. He walked behind the mahogany desk, sat down in Gideon’s high-backed leather chair, and opened a top drawer. He pulled out a sleek, black silenced pistol and laid it flat on the desk surface.
Paul’s breath hitched in his throat. He shrank back, shivering.
"Three weeks ago," Arthur said, leaning forward, "you submitted a revised dietary plan for Gideon. You claimed a nutritionist in New York recommended a daily cold-pressed citrus juice to improve his blood pressure."
"It... it was a legitimate recommendation!" Paul squeaked. "It's healthy! It's full of antioxidants!"
"Who paid you, Paul?" Arthur asked, his voice deathly calm.
"Nobody! I swear to God, nobody!"
Arthur looked at Norah. "Explain it to him, Miss Blake."
Norah stepped forward, her voice steady despite the terrifying atmosphere in the room.
"Bergamot and pink grapefruit contain high concentrations of bergamottin," she said, looking directly at the shivering chef. "It's a specific organic compound that permanently binds to the intestinal CYP3A4 enzyme, destroying it. It takes the body three days to rebuild those enzymes. By giving him that juice every single morning at eight-fifteen, you made sure he had zero enzyme defense. Every pill he took built up in his tissue. You were melting his muscles from the inside out."
Paul stared at her, his lips trembling, unable to formulate a response.
"A simple toxicology report wouldn't screen for grapefruit compounds because they aren't classified as poisons," Norah continued. "If he died, the death certificate would have listed acute renal failure and sudden cardiac arrest due to natural complications. You executed a perfect murder, Mr. Renner. Except you left the bottle on the counter."
Arthur reached across the desk, picked up a clear plastic bag containing the pale, cloudy bottle that Marcus had retrieved from the kitchen.
"We checked your personal bank accounts an hour ago, Paul," Arthur said, tossing a printed financial statement onto the desk. "Two hundred thousand dollars was wired to an offshore account in the Cayman Islands twelve days ago. The originating entity was a logistics holding company called Vane Harbor Operations."
Norah’s breath caught in her throat.
Vane Harbor Operations.
Victor Vane was Gideon Wolf’s fiercest rival in Graybridge. He controlled the eastern shipping yards and had been trying for five years to break Gideon's hold over the deep-water docks. If Gideon died, Victor Vane would take control of the harbor within forty-eight hours.
Paul buried his face in his hands, breaking down into hysterical sobs. "They threatened my daughter! Vane's men came to my house! They told me if I didn't add the extract to his morning glass, they would cut her throat! I didn't have a choice, Arthur! I didn't have a choice!"
Arthur stared at the weeping chef without a flicker of pity. He signaled to the two guards standing behind Paul.
"Take him down to the wine cellar," Arthur ordered coldly. "Keep him alive until Gideon wakes up. If Gideon wants him fed to the dogs, we feed him to the dogs. If he wants him handed to the police, we hand him to the police."
The guards dragged the screaming chef out of the room, shutting the heavy oak doors behind them.
Once the room was quiet again, Arthur turned his gaze toward Norah. He picked up the silenced pistol, slipped it back into his drawer, and leaned his elbows on the polished desk.
"You're twenty-five years old, Norah," Arthur observed. "You have no medical degree. You worked as a maid here for eight months without making a sound. Where did you learn about enzyme inhibition?"
"My grandmother," Norah replied, crossing her arms against the chill in the room. "She had advanced heart disease and kidney failure. I was her primary caregiver for four years before she passed away. I read her medical manuals cover-to-cover because we couldn't afford a private nurse. I learned how to keep her alive."
Arthur looked at her for a long time. A faint, rare smile touched the corner of his scarred jaw.
"You saved his life, Norah," Arthur said. "Dr. Mercer just sent a text. The dialysis is working. His potassium levels are stabilizing. They expect him to regain consciousness by tomorrow morning."
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"I just did my job," Norah murmured.
"No," Arthur corrected her, standing up. "Your job was dusting baseboards and folding towels for fourteen dollars an hour. What you did tonight saved an empire from collapsing into a bloody war. Gideon Wolf doesn't forget debts, Miss Blake. And he certainly doesn't let the woman who saved his life go back to scrubbing floors."
