Chapter 8 - The Interrogation of Cynthia LaurentAt 9:00 AM the following morning, the winter sun broke through the Mediterranean mist over Monaco in a brilliant sheet of gold.
Inside the subterranean holding cells beneath the naval command at Port Hercules, the air was freezing, smelling of damp concrete, bilge oil, and industrial disinfectant.
Cynthia Laurent sat on an iron bench inside a reinforced security cell, her sixty-thousand-euro gold lamé gown torn and stained with black grease and dried wine, her acrylic nails broken, her bare feet shivering on the cold floorboards.
The heavy sliding iron door hissed open.
Christian walked into the vault, accompanied by Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance and two naval marshals carrying thick evidence binders.
When Cynthia saw Christian, she scrambled to the bars, her bloodshot eyes wide with hysterical panic.
“Christian! Please! Tell the marshals to release me! My father had a heart attack in custody this morning—he can't survive in a prison cell!”
Marcus Vance stepped forward, opening the primary federal indictment folder.
“Your father signed over every terminal, every vessel, and every euro in Zurich four hours ago, Miss Laurent,” the prosecutor said, his voice flat as an iron slab. “The international maritime grand jury returned true bills across ninety-six counts thirty minutes ago. Aggravated naval sabotage, capital murder in the 2018 Bastia explosion, and the systematic smuggling of illegal ordnance.”
He showed her the decrypted banking ledgers and the wire confirmations recovered from her father’s safe.
“Your trial begins in four weeks. You are facing twenty-five years at the Federal Correctional Institution in Danbury for international conspiracy and corporate extortion.”
Cynthia looked at Christian, weeping in broken, hopeless defeat.
“Christian... what are you going to do to me?”
Christian looked down at his former associate with cold, absolute detachment.
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“I am not going to do anything to you, Cynthia,” Christian whispered, his voice quiet enough that the water dripping in the drain sounded like a metronome. “The law will do it for me. You will eat prison bread. You will scrub prison floors. And every morning when you wake up, you will remember that the dishwasher you ordered to clean your hem owns every naval berth your father ever built.”
He turned on his heel and walked out of the holding block, leaving her frantic, weeping cries to echo against the damp concrete until the heavy iron door slammed shut forever.
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