Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Grand Ballroom
The grand ballroom of the Moretti estate was an echo chamber of anxiety. Crystal chandeliers swayed imperceptibly overhead, casting fragmented shards of light across sixty terrified household staff members—maids, groundskeepers, footmen, and kitchen staff—standing in rigid silence along the perimeter walls.
At the center of the vast expanse of polished parquet flooring, two figures stood guarded by four burly, black-suited private security guards armed with concealed sidearms.
Richard Collins, his silk necktie slightly loosened, paced like a caged tiger, checking his Rolex every fifteen seconds. Beside him, Victoria Gable stood with her arms crossed over her pristine black uniform, her face a mask of indignation, though the erratic pulse at the base of her throat betrayed her terror.
"This is an illegal detention!" Richard barked at Marcus, the head of security, who stood impassively near the double doors with his arms folded across his chest. "I am Dante Moretti’s chief legal and financial officer! If these doors are not unlocked within five minutes, I will have the state attorney general and the entire Cook County tactical unit tearing this gate down!"
"The attorney general won't be taking your calls today, Richard," a voice boomed from the top of the grand marble landing.
Every head snapped upward.
Dante descended the stairs slowly, deliberately, radiating an aura of terrifying authority. But it was not Dante alone who commanded the room's sudden gasp. Walking directly beside him, dressed in her rumpled uniform but holding her chin level with the balcony railing, was Isabella.
Victoria’s eyes flared with venom. "Dante! What is the meaning of this charade? That girl was caught red-handed with fifty thousand dollars in stolen estate funds in her personal footlocker! Richard and I were merely protecting your household from an opportunistic thief!"
Dante reached the bottom landing and stopped ten paces from the pair. He didn't look at Victoria. His gaze was locked onto Richard Collins, dissecting him piece by piece.
"Fifty thousand dollars," Dante repeated thoughtfully, rolling the phrase over his tongue. "Such a modest sum for an estate like this, isn't it, Victoria? Tell me, Richard, as my financial advisor, what is the current margin on fifty thousand dollars compared to, say... eighty million transferred through shell companies in Panama?"
Richard’s face drained of color so fast it looked as if his blood had turned to water. He forced a dry, rasping laugh. "Dante, you’re clearly suffering from another one of your stress-induced paranoid episodes. What nonsense has this lying maid whispered into your ear?"
"She whispered nothing," Dante replied smoothly, reaching into his pocket. He did not pull out a weapon. He pulled out his gold-plated Montblanc pen and clicked it once.
Instantly, the ballroom’s integrated audiovisual projection system roared to life. Across the sixty-foot white plaster wall above the fireplace, the surveillance footage from the private study beamed in crystal-clear four-kilobit resolution.
Richard’s own voice echoed through the cavernous room from forty hidden surround-sound speakers: *“He still thinks Elena drove off that embankment because she was weeping over Julian’s gambling debts... Isabella is a stray from the North Side... She’s our perfect shield.”*
The staff gasped in collective horror. Whispers like dry leaves swept through the room.
Victoria took an involuntary step backward, her knees buckling. "Richard... you said you deleted the hard drive backups... you swore to me the system was purged!"
"Shut up, you stupid cow!" Richard snarled, lunging toward her with his fist raised, completely shedding his refined gentlemanly veneer.
Before his arm could swing, Marcus crossed the distance in two strides, grabbing Richard’s arm, twisting it behind his back with a sickening pop, and driving his face directly into the polished floorboards. Richard let out a high-pitched shriek of agony as Marcus pinned him with a knee between his shoulder blades.
Victoria collapsed onto her knees, sobbing hysterically into her trembling hands. "Dante, please! It was Richard! He held Julian's debts over my family! He threatened to kill my son if I didn't help him swap the brake inspection reports on Elena’s car! I had no choice! I swear to God, I had no choice!"
Dante stepped forward until the polished toes of his shoes were mere inches from Victoria’s face. He looked down at her not with fury, but with the utter detachment of a man observing an insect.
"You had eighteen months to speak," Dante said softly, every word slicing like a scalpel. "You watched me mourn my wife for five years. You watched me bury my brother. You watched this innocent girl scrub your floors, and you planned to send her to a maximum-security penitentiary to cover your greed."
"Dante... please..." she wept, clutching at his trousers.
Dante stepped back, letting her hands fall pathetically to the hardwood floor. "Marcus. Remove Mrs. Gable to the wine cellar storage. Strip her of all digital devices. Hand her over to the federal marshals when they arrive."
"And Collins, sir?" Marcus asked, keeping his weight firmly planted on Richard’s spine.
May you like
Richard turned his head sideways against the floor, spitting blood onto the wood. A grotesque, desperate sneer spread across his lips. "You think you’ve won, Dante? You think Julian’s little drive saves you? You arrogant bastard... look at the clock!"
***
