Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the Rain
The rain continued to lash down upon us, but within seconds of Dante’s command, the chaos of the armed convoy had transformed into a terrifying, synchronized machine of precision.
Men in tactical gear swarmed the embankment. Two massive guards hurried down the slope, their boots splashing through the mud, their faces grim. Without a word, they hoisted Dante to his feet, treating him with the reverent, terrified care one might afford a fragile deity.
Dante didn't lean on them completely; he carried his weight with rigid, stubborn pride, though his left leg dragged slightly where the dashboard had crushed his shin. He kept his grip on my wrist, anchoring me to his side as the guards pulled us both up the steep embankment toward the road.
“Get the medical kit from Unit Three,” barked the scarred giant who had nearly shot me. His name tag read Marcus. He cast a deeply suspicious, razor-sharp glance in my direction. “Boss, are you—?”
“I’m breathing, Marcus,” Dante interrupted coldly, cutting him off. His gray eyes never left my face. “Which is more than I expected to be five minutes ago.”
They bundled us into the climate-controlled leather interior of the lead Cadillac Escalade. The contrast between the freezing, violent mud outside and the sterile, heated luxury inside was jarring. As the heavy doors sealed shut, locking out the storm, the silence inside the cabin became almost as oppressive as the mountain air.
Marcus handed Dante a pristine white handkerchief, which the mafia boss used to wipe the thick streaks of blood and mud from his forehead. Every movement was controlled, calculated, masking the severe pain he was undoubtedly in.
“Well?” Dante prompted quietly, his voice dropping into an intimate, dangerous register that demanded an immediate answer. “You haven't answered my question, Miss... what did you say your name was?”
“Cara,” I stammered, shivering violently in my soaked, ruined waitress uniform. My hands were a mess of raw, bleeding gashes from the glass shards, and my teeth chattered so hard I could barely form the words. “Cara Fields.”
“Cara,” Dante repeated, tasting the name on his tongue as if it were a strange poison. He leaned back against the leather seat, crossing one leg over the other despite his injured knee. “A waitress from Bellini’s. Not a federal agent. Not a rival syndicate soldier. A girl who carries plates for minimum wage and tips. So explain to me how a girl like you happened to overhear a private conversation in an exclusive restaurant booth, and how you managed to chase my car up a treacherous mountain pass to save my life.”
The unspoken threat hung heavy in the air. If I stuttered, if my story didn't add up, Marcus and his men wouldn't hesitate to throw me back over the guardrail.
Swallowing the lump of terror in my throat, I looked him dead in the eye.
“I was clearing the table behind the partition in the private alcove,” I said, my voice shaking but gathering strength. “I heard Julian Vance tell your wife that it was done. I heard Vanessa ask if the brakes were cut, and Julian said they were adjusted to fail on the mountain road. She laughed, Mr. Moretti. She said that by midnight, she’d be a grieving widow and take your corporate shares via an emergency proxy.”
The temperature inside the car seemed to drop twenty degrees.
Dante didn't flinch. He didn't curse, shatter a glass, or punch the leather seat. But the muscles in his jaw tightened into hard knots, and his gray eyes turned into pools of frozen obsidian. The silence that followed was heavier than the wreckage at the bottom of the ravine.
“Julian Vance,” Dante whispered, the name tasting like ash on his tongue. “My chief logistics manager. A man whose family I pulled out of financial ruin ten years ago.”
“And your wife,” I added softly, feeling a sudden surge of bitter vindication. “Vanessa.”
Dante turned his gaze slowly back to me. For a long, terrifying moment, he studied my face, looking past the mud, the blood, and the cheap polyester uniform, searching for any sign of deception. What he found seemed to satisfy him, though his expression remained an unreadable mask of stone.
“You ruined a very expensive car, Cara Fields,” Dante said evenly.
My breath caught. “I... I saved your life!”
“You did,” he conceded, a faint, humorless smirk touching the corner of his mouth. He signaled to Marcus with a flick of his fingers.
Marcus instantly opened a compartment and pulled out a clean, heavy wool blanket, tossing it across the console. I caught it reflexively, wrapping its warm, dry folds tightly around my shivering shoulders.
“And in my world,” Dante continued, his voice dropping an octave, “debts are always paid in full. But loyalty—true loyalty—is rarer than diamonds. You risked your life for a man you’d never met, knowing full well who I am and what people say about me.”
“I didn't think about who you were,” I murmured, pulling the blanket closer. “I just thought about a murderer getting away with it.”
Dante stared at me for a long beat, a strange, complex emotion flickering deep within his gray eyes—something that looked suspiciously like respect.
“Marcus,” Dante commanded without breaking eye contact with me.
“Boss?”
“Take us back to the city. Not to my estate. To the safehouse on Lake Shore Drive. And call Dr. Hayes. Tell him to meet us there immediately.”
“And the wife?” Marcus asked carefully, a lethal edge creeping into his tone. “And Vance?”
May you like
Dante looked out the rain-streaked window, watching the dark pine trees blur past us in the night. When he turned back, his expression was colder than the winter wind outside.
“Let them sleep,” Dante murmured softly, a terrifying promise lingering in every syllable. “Let them enjoy the next few hours thinking they’ve won. Because tomorrow morning, we’re going to dismantle their entire world.”
