Chapter 3 - The Interrogation at Precinct 3
The police interrogation room at the 3rd Precinct was dark, cold, and smelled of stale coffee and industrial disinfectant.
Richard Vance sat at the metal table, wearing a wrinkled golf shirt and khaki pants. His wife, Beatrice, sat beside him, dabbing her eyes with a tissue, while their pampered son, Marcus, nervously played with his hair. Across from them sat their high-priced defense attorney, Arthur Harrison, who was smirking as he reviewed his notes.
"Look, officers," Harrison was saying to the two junior detectives standing by the door. "My clients are devastated by this tragic situation. They were simply trying to help my client's niece during a difficult recovery. Negligence? Perhaps a mild civil matter. But criminal charges? Attempted murder? It's absurd. My clients are respected members of the community, not criminals."
"They drugged her, you idiot!" Detective Miller snapped, slamming his clipboard onto the table as he re-entered the room. "We found the chloral hydrate!"
"Which you cannot prove my clients administered," Harrison replied smoothly. "Emily was suffering from severe postpartum depression. She could have easily ingested those compounds herself out of despair. And as for the baby's feeding schedule—my clients are elderly. They made a tragic mistake regarding the formula ratio. You have no hard evidence of intent."
Suddenly, the overhead fluorescent lights flickered twice and died.
The entire precinct building was plunged into dark amber emergency backup lighting. The electronic locks on the interrogation room door let out a soft click as the central power grid experienced a total, localized blackout.
"What the hell?" Detective Miller muttered, reaching for his flashlight.
Before he could pull it from his belt, the heavy steel door swung open.
Two tall men in dark suits stepped into the room. Without saying a word, they grabbed Detective Miller and his junior officer by their tactical vests, pulled them out into the hallway, and locked the heavy door behind them.
"Hey! What is the meaning of this?!" Harrison shouted, standing up from his chair. "You can't do this! I am an attorney!"
Footsteps echoed softly from the dark corridor.
A tall figure stepped through the doorway into the dim amber light of the interrogation room.
Richard Vance squinted into the gloom, expecting to see a SWAT commander or a senior police captain. But as the man stepped fully into the light, Richard’s jaw dropped in absolute, unadulterated shock.
It was me.
I stood before them in my three-thousand-dollar midnight-blue Italian suit, my leather shoes gleaming, my hands resting calmly in my pockets. Flanking me were Dominic and Marco—two men whose terrifying reputations were known in every dark alley in Ohio.
"Vincent?!" Beatrice gasped, her fake tears vanishing instantly, replaced by a look of utter disgust. "What are you doing here?! How dare you walk in here dressed like that! Where did you steal those clothes?!"
"Shut up, Beatrice," Richard snapped, though his voice lacked its usual booming confidence. He glared at me, trying to regain his dominant posture. "Vincent, you useless idiot! Did you bring your boss’s lawyer? You need to tell these cops right now that Emily was crazy! Tell them she was taking pills! If you don't clear our names, Emily's trust fund will be frozen by the court, and we won't be able to pay off our family debts!"
Marcus laughed nervously. "Yeah, Vince, man, get us out of here. This place smells like piss. And tell your boss Mr. Sterling that he needs to lend us his sports car for the weekend after all this stress."
I looked at the three of them. I didn't speak. I simply walked over to the head of the steel table, pulled out the heavy metal chair, and sat down.
The lawyer, Harrison, stepped forward, pointing a finger at my chest. "Listen to me, you glorified chauffeur! You have no legal standing to be in this room! I am going to have you arrested for impersonating an officer and trespassing—"
Before Harrison could finish his sentence, Dominic stepped forward like a strike of lightning. He grabbed Harrison by the back of his expensive silk tie, slammed his face flat onto the steel table with a sickening CRACK, and pinned his head down with a thick, tattooed hand.
Harrison shrieked in pain, blood pouring from his broken nose onto the metal table.
"AHHH! MY NOSE! MY NOSE!" Harrison screamed.
Beatrice shrieked, pressing herself back against the wall. Marcus dropped to his knees, trembling violently.
Richard jumped up, his face pale as chalk. "ARE YOU CRAZY?! THAT'S A LAWYER! CALL THE POLICE!"
"Richard," I said softly. My voice was very quiet, yet it cut through Harrison's screams like a razor through silk. "Look around you. Do you hear any police coming?"
Richard stopped. He looked at the heavy steel door. Outside, the hallway was dead silent. The precinct’s primary security cameras were dark. The police officers who were supposed to be guarding him were nowhere to be found.
"Who... who are you?" Richard whispered, his voice cracking, a sudden, cold wave of primal terror washing over his face.
"My name is Vincent Moretti," I said calmly, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the table. "For four years, you called me 'the driver.' You made me sit at the kid's table during Thanksgiving. You made me park your rusted Cadillac in the rain. You laughed at me behind my back and told my wife she married a worthless peasant."
I pulled my custom Kimber 1911 from my shoulder holster and set it gently on the steel table between us. The silver ivory grip bearing the Moretti crest caught the amber emergency light.
Richard’s eyes expanded until they looked like they were going to burst from his sockets.
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"The... the Moretti Syndicate..." Richard gasped, his knees buckling under him. He hit his chair hard, his breath coming in short, ragged gasps. "The... the ghost of Cleveland... the boss..."
"You thought you were poisoning the family of a helpless chauffeur, Richard," I said, my voice dropping into a chilling whisper. "You didn't realize you were starving the son of the king."
