Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Subterranean Vault
The subterranean vault beneath the Moretti estate was originally built as a wine cellar during the prohibition era, but over the years, it had evolved into something far darker.
It was a cold, windowless room carved out of solid granite, lined with gray concrete and illuminated by a single harsh overhead bulb swinging gently from a frayed cord.
Thomas Vance sat strapped securely to a heavy metal chair in the center of the room, his fine polyester suit wrinkled, sweat beading heavily along his forehead and upper lip.
I stood directly in front of him, leaning casually against the edge of a stainless-steel workbench, slowly rolling a heavy silver Zippo lighter between my knuckles.
Marco stood to my right, holding the military-grade acoustic disruption box recovered from beneath Theo’s crib.
"Thomas," I began, my voice quiet, smooth, and utterly devoid of human warmth.
"You've been with us for five years. You went to your daughter’s graduation on my dime. I paid off your medical debts when your wife had surgery."
Thomas swallowed hard, his throat working convulsively as he tried to maintain a facade of outraged innocence.
"Mr. Moretti... you have to believe me! I don't know anything about that box! Someone must have cloned my keycard! It’s a frame-job!"
I didn't yell. I didn't slam my fist against the table. I simply stopped rolling the Zippo lighter, snapped the lid open with a sharp clack, and flicked the wheel until a blue flame erupted into the dark air.
"A frame-job," I repeated softly.
"Let's talk about framing, Thomas. Let's talk about the fifty-thousand-dollar wire transfer that hit your wife's account from a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands yesterday morning."
Thomas flinched violently, his eyes darting toward the concrete floor as his rehearsed story completely disintegrated.
"That... that was an inheritance!" he stammered, his voice cracking with panic. "A distant relative passed away—"
"Your wife's relatives are all working-class potato farmers in Idaho, Thomas," Marco interrupted coldly, stepping forward and tossing a printed bank statement onto Thomas's lap.
"They don't have fifty thousand dollars to their name, let alone offshore shell corporations in the Caribbean."
The silence in the vault grew heavy, suffocating, and absolute.
Thomas slumped forward in the metal chair, his shoulders shaking as the terrifying reality of what it meant to betray an empire finally crashed down upon him.
"I didn't want to hurt the babies," Thomas whispered, his voice breaking into pathetic, tearful sobs. "I swear to God, I didn't want to hurt them!"
"Then who told you to put that box in the nursery?" I asked, my voice dropping an octave into pure, lethal territory.
"I had to!" Thomas cried out, looking up at me with wide, terrified eyes.
"They had my daughter, Mr. Moretti! They snatched her from her soccer practice two days ago! They said if I didn't install the acoustic disruptor in the Moretti nursery to keep the heirs in a state of constant distress..."
"...they would ship my little girl back to me in pieces."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
It wasn't a disgruntled employee seeking financial revenge. It wasn't an inside heist or a simple turf war.
It was a targeted, psychological hostage operation orchestrated by someone who knew my family, knew my security layout, and wanted to break the Moretti dynasty from the inside out.
"Who?" I demanded, grabbing Thomas by the lapels of his wrinkled suit and hauling him forward until his face was inches from mine.
"Who has your daughter, Thomas? Give me a name!"
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Thomas sobbed uncontrollably, shaking his head back and forth in absolute despair.
"I don't know his name! They only called him... The Architect."
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