Chapter 8 - The Interrogation of Victoria MorettiAt 9:00 AM the following morning, the winter sun broke through the coastal fog over Atlantic City in a brilliant sheet of gold.
Inside the subterranean holding cells beneath the federal courthouse on Pacific Avenue, the air was freezing, smelling of wet concrete, salt brine, and industrial disinfectant.
Victoria Moretti sat on an iron bench inside a reinforced security cell, her seventy-thousand-dollar velvet 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.
Dominic walked into the vault, accompanied by Assistant United States Attorney Marcus Vance and two federal marshals carrying thick evidence binders.
When Victoria saw Dominic, she scrambled to the bars, her bloodshot eyes wide with hysterical panic.
“Dominic! 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 casino, every vessel, and every dollar in Zurich four hours ago, Miss Moretti,” the prosecutor said, his voice flat as an iron slab. “The federal grand jury returned true bills across ninety-six counts thirty minutes ago. Aggravated vehicular sabotage, capital murder conspiracy in the 2014 Zurich incident, and the systematic embezzlement of gaming funds.”
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.”
Victoria looked at Dominic, weeping in broken, hopeless defeat.
“Dominic... what are you going to do to me?”
Dominic looked down at his former associate with cold, absolute detachment.
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“I am not going to do anything to you, Victoria,” Dominic 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 server you ordered to beg on her knees owns every hotel 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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