Chapter 13 - The Confession of Heinrich Vance
The tropical rain outside hammered against the shattered windows of the Bogota hacienda as Dr. Heinrich Vance knelt on the blood-spattered marble floor, gasping for breath with the cold barrel of Damian Caruso’s rifle still pressing firmly against his forehead.
"Talk," Damian commanded, his voice devoid of any human warmth. "And make it quick before I decide your information isn't worth the bullet."
"It was... it was Donato Moretti," Vance sobbed, his hands trembling violently as he clutched the hem of Damian's tactical trousers. "The old man himself. He knew you were locked down in Italy on those fabricated federal charges. He knew your wife was vulnerable, rushed into Sanatorium Montreux for emergency delivery."
Damian's jaw tightened until a muscle ticked fiercely in his cheek. "Go on."
"Moretti wanted an heir of yours," Vance babbled, tears streaming down his face. "Not to kill her—no, he wanted to raise her inside the Moretti stronghold, use her as future leverage against you, or marry her off into a allied syndicate when she came of age to absorb your shipping ports in the North Atlantic."
"And the mother?" Damian's voice dropped into a terrifying register. "What happened to Clara Monroe?"
"She... she was supposed to be disposed of," Vance confessed, squeezing his eyes shut in terror. "A lethal sedative overdose while she was unconscious on the operating table. The death certificate for both of you was pre-printed before she even went into labor."
A dead silence fell over the room, heavier and more lethal than the explosions that had breached the compound.
The two Caruso operatives standing guard by the door shifted uncomfortably, knowing the exact moment a man crossed the line from ruthless mafia boss into a creature of absolute vengeance.
"Then why," Damian whispered, his voice dangerously low, "is she still breathing?"
"The... the surgical resident on duty," Vance whimpered, his voice cracking. "A young doctor named Alvarez. He couldn't do it. He forged the secondary medical logs, switched the intravenous drip to a saline flush, and smuggled Miss Monroe out of the sanitarium through the laundry service before my security team could execute the order."
Damian slowly lowered the barrel of the rifle, though the deadly glare in his eyes didn't soften by a fraction of a millimeter.
"Where is Alvarez now?"
"Dead," Vance choked out, terrified. "The Morettis found out six months later. They hunted him down in Geneva and threw him off a suspension bridge. But... but Miss Monroe had already gone underground, moving from city to city under false employment records provided by a sympathetic underground network."
Damian stood up slowly, stepping back from the cowering doctor.
He turned to his lead operative, his face a mask of dark, unyielding steel.
"Pack him into the cargo hold of the Gulfstream," Damian ordered coldly. "When we land back in New York, we are going to deliver Dr. Heinrich Vance directly to Donato Moretti's doorstep as a personal, upfront payment on a blood debt."
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"And the rest of the Moretti syndicate?" the operative asked, readying his weapon.
"Burn their shipping terminals in Brooklyn," Damian vowed, walking toward the ruined doorway of the study. "Tear down every warehouse they own. Leave nothing standing by dawn."
