Chapter 6 - The Interrogation in the Citadel
My heart felt as though it had been ripped from my chest by frozen iron claws. My knees buckled, and I would have collapsed onto the wet deck of the interceptor if Tonio hadn't caught my arm with his weathered, calloused hands.
“Clara...” I gasped, my voice shattering into a ragged, desperate sob. “Camille, please! She’s fourteen years old! She knows nothing about the syndicate! She’s an innocent child!”
Camille let out a sharp, mocking laugh that cut through the sound of the rain like a razor blade.
“Innocence is a luxury for the dead, Sylvie,” Camille hissed through the screen. “You brought that dirty old orchardist to my table. You made Dominic shatter my champagne fountain and strip my ring in front of forty council lords. You humiliated the House of De Winter. Now you will watch your sister choke on her own fluids.”
Camille leaned closer to the camera, her dark eyes flashing with feral hatred.
“Bring Isabella’s ledgers, the silver pruning shear, and Dominic Moreau alone to the Citadel of Saint-Florent by five o’clock. If you notify the High Council, or if a single armed guard approaches the fortress, the orderly depresses the plunger.”
The screen went black.
“NO!” I screamed into the rain, slamming my fist against the boat’s console, weeping uncontrollably as the sheer weight of terror crushed my soul.
Heavy footsteps pounded across the wooden pier.
Emerging from the shadows of the packing house, his black tuxedo torn at the shoulder, covered in plaster dust and fresh gunpowder residue, was Dominic Moreau.
In his right hand, he dragged a wounded mercenary by the tactical vest—the lead commander of the Corsican Red Guard who had breached the bank.
Dominic threw the bleeding soldier onto the deck of the boat with effortless, terrifying power.
He saw my face. He saw the tears streaming down my cheeks, the wild, suffocating panic in my eyes.
In a single stride, Dominic crossed the deck, caught me by the shoulders, and pulled me fiercely against his broad chest. His arms wrapped around me like steel bands, anchoring my trembling body against the storm.
“Sylvie,” he commanded, his deep voice vibrating with absolute, unshakable power against my ear. “Breathe. Look at me. What did they do?”
“They’re in Corte, Dominic!” I sobbed, clutching the lapels of his ruined jacket. “Camille is at the clinic! They have a syringe at Clara’s IV line! They want us at the Citadel of Saint-Florent by five o’clock with the ledgers and the shear, or they’re going to inject her with thallium!”
Dominic didn’t flinch. His jaw locked into solid granite, his obsidian eyes turning into twin voids of cold, calculating death.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t panic. The Iron Shadow simply calculated the battlefield.
He turned around, his gaze falling onto the wounded mercenary lying on the deck.
Dominic walked over, knelt down on one knee, and planted his heavy combat boot squarely on the man’s shattered collarbone, pressing down with just enough pressure to make the soldier gasp in agony.
“Your name is Vaneck,” Dominic said, his voice flat, conversational, and infinitely terrifying. “You command Henri De Winter’s tactical extraction unit.”
“Go to hell, Moreau,” Vaneck spat, blood bubbling from his lip.
Dominic reached into his pocket, retrieved the antique silver pruning shear, and clicked the sharp steel blades together inches from Vaneck’s throat.
“You have five seconds to give me the radio encryption frequencies for the Citadel of Saint-Florent, Vaneck,” Dominic whispered. “And the access codes to Henri’s private communications network. If you give them to me, Matteo will dress your wounds and put you on a freighter to Sardinia.”
Dominic leaned down, his eyes boring into the mercenary’s soul.
“If you refuse, I will use this shear to remove your fingers one by one, and then I will throw your body to the sharks in Bastia bay.”
Vaneck looked into Dominic’s eyes. He saw no bluff, no hesitation, no mercy—only the terrifying certainty of a predator who had ended dozens of men without blinking.
The mercenary broke.
“Channel seven-seven-four!” Vaneck gasped, tears of agony cutting through the grime on his face. “The Citadel is guarded by fifteen men! Henri set up a defensive perimeter in the old battery! But Camille... Camille isn't at the clinic anymore!”
I froze, stepping forward. “What did you say?!”
“Camille was using a pre-recorded video feed!” Vaneck stammered frantically. “The girl was extracted from the Saint-Antoine Clinic an hour ago by Henri’s private ambulance! They transported her directly to the Citadel of Saint-Florent! Clara is being held in the lower ammunition magazine beneath the sea tower!”
Dominic slowly lifted his boot.
He turned to Matteo. “Tie him. Secure the frequencies. We leave Bastia now.”
Dominic looked at me, his gaze blazing with an unyielding, sacred fire. He reached out, taking my trembling hand into his large, warm fingers, bringing it to his lips to press a fierce, tender kiss against my knuckles.
May you like
“Clara is alive, Sylvie,” Dominic said softly, his voice an unbreakable vow. “And within two hours, I will place her safely in your arms, and Henri De Winter’s bloodline will be completely extinguished.”
================================================================================
