Chapter 5 - The Midnight Interrogation
The warehouse on 24th Street was a massive, abandoned rail depot that the Moretti family used for storing imported olive oil, construction equipment, and occasionally, people who needed to be reminded of their place in the universe.
The air inside was thick with the scent of diesel, old iron, and cold sweat. Marcus and Leo were tied to two heavy wooden chairs beneath a single, unshaded lightbulb that dangled from the high steel rafters. Leo’s face was bruised from a brief, foolish attempt to resist Luca’s men during the ride down, while Marcus sat perfectly still, his eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the light.
At exactly 11:45 PM, the heavy metal door of the warehouse slid open, and Vincent Moretti stepped into the light.
He had changed out of his dinner suit into a dark, functional leather jacket and black trousers. He held a thick manila folder in his hands—the printed contents of Donald Vance’s encrypted ledger, which Tommy, his tech specialist, had spent the last hour downloading using Clara’s key.
Vincent dragged a metal chair over, turning it backward and sitting down directly opposite Marcus.
“Your boss is a very sloppy businessman, Marcus,” Vincent said, tossing the folder onto the floor between them. “He’s been skimming from his partners in Montreal. He’s been using five different shell companies in Ohio to launder money that belongs to the syndicate’s retirement fund. If this ledger gets out, Donald Vance won't just go to prison; his own people will skin him alive.”
Marcus swallowed hard, his voice raspy. “Moretti, look… we were just following orders. Vance told us the girl had some personal documents. He didn't tell us she had the whole network. We didn't know.”
“Ignorance is a very expensive excuse,” Vincent replied coldly. He pulled his phone from his pocket, pressing a button on the screen before placing it on the metal chair between them.
The phone rang twice before a loud, panicked voice boomed over the speakerphone.
“Marcus? Leo? You there?” Donald Vance shouted from his office in Detroit. “Why haven't you called? Did you get the girl?”
Vincent leaned forward, his voice cutting through the line like a razor. “They didn't get the girl, Donald. But they got a very nice tour of my warehouse.”
The line went dead silent for five agonizing seconds. When Vance spoke again, the arrogance was gone, replaced by a desperate, defensive stutter. “Moretti? Is that… is that Vincent Moretti? Look, Vincent, there’s been a misunderstanding. The girl… she’s my wife. It’s a domestic matter. I didn't mean to disrespect your territory—”
“You sent armed men into my city, Donald,” Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping to that terrifying, flat register that made even Luca take a step back. “You threatened a woman under my roof. You disrupted my dinner. And you lied to your own syndicate about your books.”
“Vincent, please… let’s make a deal,” Vance begged, his voice cracking. “Whatever you want. The northern suburbs? They’re yours. The shipping docks in Port Huron? Take them. Just give me the ledger and the girl.”
“The ledger belongs to me now,” Vincent said. “And Clara Vance is no longer your concern. By midnight, your captains in Detroit are going to receive an anonymous copy of your financial records. By 1:00 AM, you will be running for your life from your own people. And if I see a single one of your men across the Michigan border into Illinois again, I won't send them back in chairs. I’ll send them back in pieces.”
Vincent reached down, cutting the call off with a single tap of his thumb.
He looked up at Marcus and Leo. The two brothers were trembling now, their bravado completely shattered. They weren't looking at a rival mob boss anymore; they were looking at the man who had just destroyed their world with a thirty-second phone call.
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“Please,” Marcus whispered, his eyes filling with genuine tears as the reality of their situation set in. “Please, Mr. Moretti. Just let us leave. We won't go back to Detroit. We’ll leave the country. We’ll disappear. Just don't let Vance’s people find us. Don't let us die here.”
By midnight, the men who had hunted Clara through the streets of Chicago like an animal were begging Vincent Moretti for the one thing they had refused to give her: mercy.
