Chapter 10 - THE INTERROGATION
The underground holding cells beneath the Blackwell estate were cold, sterile, and silent.
The only sound was the steady drip of water from an overhead pipe and the muffled groans of the man chained to the center chair.
His name was Viktor Vance—no relation to the estate doctor—a high-ranking enforcer from the Russian syndicate operating out of South Boston.
He had been caught trying to scale the western perimeter fence less than twenty minutes after the sniper shot had missed Damon by inches.
Damon stood in front of the chair, his sleeves rolled up, his knuckles bruised and smeared with dark stains.
Kate stood a few feet back in the shadows, her cast removed earlier that morning, her arm wrapped in a lighter supportive brace.
She watched the interrogation with cold, steady eyes.
She wasn't the terrified maid hiding in the storage room anymore.
"Who hired you, Viktor?" Damon asked, his voice deceptively calm.
The Russian enforcer spat a mouthful of blood onto the concrete floor, laughing wetly.
"Go to hell, Blackwell. You think because you clipped Senator Caldwell's wings you own the city? The Bratva has deep roots here."
Damon didn't raise his voice.
He simply reached out, took a pair of heavy iron pliers from the table beside him, and stepped closer.
"Roots can be pulled up," Damon said softly.
"Let's talk about your employer. Was it Petrov?"
"I'm not saying a damn word," Viktor sneered.
Damon didn't hesitate.
With terrifying speed, he brought the pliers down.
A bloodcurdling scream echoed off the concrete walls, bouncing down the empty corridor.
Kate didn't flinch.
She had crossed the threshold from victim to observer, watching the brutal mechanics of power operate in real-time.
"Try again," Damon said, his voice as smooth as glass.
"Who sent you?"
Panting heavily, blood pouring from his hand, the enforcer looked up with terror in his dilated pupils.
He saw no mercy in Damon’s eyes.
And when he glanced sideways, he saw no horror in Kate's eyes either—only cold, calculating patience.
"It... it was Petrov," the Russian choked out, tears mixing with sweat and blood on his cheeks.
"He wanted you dead after you ruined his drug shipments through the harbor last month."
Damon stood up straight.
He tossed the pliers back onto the metal table and wiped his hands with a clean white handkerchief.
"Where is Petrov hiding?"
"The old shipping warehouse on Pier 42," the man sobbed.
"He's got twenty men waiting there with automatic weapons. He's planning a full assault on your estate tomorrow night."
Damon folded the handkerchief and slipped it into his pocket.
He looked at Marcus, who stood silently by the heavy iron door.
"Gather the strike team," Damon ordered.
"We’re not waiting until tomorrow night."
"Boss," Marcus warned, stepping forward.
"Pier 42 is heavily fortified. It's a suicide run if we go in blind."
"We aren't going in blind," Damon said, turning to look directly at Kate.
"Kate has been auditing our logistics files all week. She knows every single shell company Petrov uses to launder money through the docks."
Kate stepped forward out of the shadows.
Her eyes met Damon’s.
"If we freeze his primary offshore accounts twenty minutes before you hit the warehouse," Kate said coldly, "Petrov's men won't get paid. And mercenaries don't die for a boss who's broke."
Damon smiled—a dark, dangerous, approving smile.
"That," Damon said softly, "is why you're my chief administrator."
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"Let's go dismantle an empire."
THE END OF CHAPTER 10
