Chapter 7 - The Interrogation in the CellarBy 3:30 AM, the grand dining hall had been cleared of guests.
Every syndicate boss, capo, and commissioner had been escorted off the premises under strict orders from Daniel: speak a single syllable about tonight’s revelations to the press or the authorities, and their commercial contracts would be terminated with extreme prejudice.
Arthur Vance sat zip-tied to a heavy oak chair in the underground wine cellar beneath the mansion. His broken nose had been bandaged, but the swelling had turned his left eye an ugly, mottled purple.
Camilla sat on a wooden bench across from him, shivering in her torn designer gown, wrapped in an itchy wool blanket someone had tossed over her shoulders.
Matteo sat behind a metal folding table, the three black ledgers open before him.
I stood near the door, holding a clipboard with inventory records. Matteo had specifically requested that I remain present. He said that a woman who had the courage to protect his child was the only person in this house whose eyes he trusted.
“Let’s talk about Dr. Alistair Vance, Arthur,” Matteo said, leaning back in his chair. “Your brother signed Isabella’s death certificate. Then he took a sabbatical to a private estate in Zurich three days later.”
Arthur spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the concrete floor. “Alistair is retired, Matteo. You’re smart enough to know he had nothing to do with domestic medical protocols.”
“He administered the digitalis glycoside that caused her heart failure,” Matteo retorted coldly. “The tox report in Isabella’s case file proves it was introduced via subcutaneous injection over forty-eight hours.”
Arthur looked up, a hollow, bitter laugh escaping his cracked lips. “Of course. Why else would I give my only daughter to a ruthless wolf like you? You were our shield, Matteo. Your father built the most airtight distribution network on the continent. All we needed was your signature on the merger agreement.”
Camilla buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking violently. “Daddy... stop... stop talking...”
“Shut your mouth, Camilla!” Arthur barked, his voice echoing off the damp stone walls. “You couldn't even handle an eight-year-old child and a maid! You had one job: find that recipe tin and get it into the incinerator before dinner! Instead, you let an illiterate servant humiliate us in front of the entire Commission!”
Matteo stood up slowly.
The temperature in the cellar dropped instantly.
He walked over to Arthur’s chair, stopped six inches from the older man’s face, and delivered a single, brutal backhand across Arthur’s jaw.
The chair rocked on its legs. Arthur’s head snapped sideways, his teeth clattering together.
“You will address Sophie as Miss Ward,” Matteo said, his voice so quiet it sounded like steel sliding against leather. “And if you open your mouth to insult my daughter or my staff again, Daniel will remove your tongue with a pair of rusty garden shears.”
Arthur swallowed his blood, staring at the floor, finally recognizing that his authority was entirely extinguished.
Matteo turned to Camilla.
“You have until sunrise to sign the transfer agreements,” Matteo told her. “Every property, every warehouse lease, every commercial bank account held in the Vance name will be signed over to the Isabella Rossi Foundation.”
Vanessa looked up with wide, desperate eyes. “And then? What happens to us?”
Matteo looked at her with pure, unadulterated disgust.
“You take two suitcases. You take your father. And you get on a commercial freight flight to Argentina. If either of you ever steps foot in North America again, my men won't bother asking questions.”
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He turned toward the iron stairs.
“Sophie. Come upstairs. Mia is waking up soon.”
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