Chapter 4 - The Confession in the Dark
The east security holding cell was located behind the kitchens, past the walk-in freezers and the old brick wine cellar. It was built during the Prohibition era, designed to hold men who talked too much or stole from the trucks before they reached the rail yards.
The heavy iron door had a small sliding barred window at eye level.
When we reached it, one of Vincent’s guards stepped aside, nodding respectfully.
“Has he said anything?” Vincent asked.
“Nothing, boss,” the guard replied. “Just banging on the door for the first hour. Now he’s just sitting on the cot.”
Vincent stepped up to the door and slid the iron bolt back with a sharp, metallic screech that echoed down the brick hallway. He pushed the heavy door open.
Charles Bellamy sat on the narrow metal cot in the corner, his expensive suit jacket stained with spilled wine and dust, his silver hair wild and unkempt. The sophisticated, untouchable corporate lawyer was gone; in his place sat a broken, shivering old man who looked like he had aged twenty years in the span of three hours.
He looked up as Vincent stepped into the harsh circle of overhead light, followed closely by me.
“Vincent,” Charles croaked, his voice raw, licking his dry lips. “Please. We’ve known each other thirty years. Your father trusted me. I handled the estate when they put him in the ground. I built the firewall that kept the Feds off your back during the 2021 RICO sweep.”
Vincent didn’t answer right away. He walked slowly across the concrete floor, his hands resting in his trouser pockets, stopping two feet away from the cot.
“You built a firewall, Charles?” Vincent asked softly. “Or did you build a cage?”
Charles swallowed hard, his eyes darting toward the open door, calculating odds that no longer existed. “It’s business, Vincent. The old ways—the docks, the cash, the street muscle—they’re dying. The Romanos have the political connections in Washington. They have the federal judges in their pocket. If we didn't merge the syndicates, the government was going to seize every asset your family spent a century building.”
“And Sophia?” Vincent’s voice didn’t rise an octave. It remained terrifyingly calm. “Was she part of the corporate restructuring, Charles?”
Charles flinched. He looked down at his trembling hands, rubbing his palms together as if trying to scrub away invisible grease.
“She was a liability,” Charles muttered, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “She found the offshore accounts in Zurich. She threatened to walk into the U.S. Attorney’s office with the hard drives unless you stepped down from the syndicate and turned yourself in to federal custody. She was going to destroy you to ‘save’ you, Vincent. She didn't understand that men like us don't get to retire.”
“So you killed her,” Vincent said.
“I didn't touch her car!” Charles snapped, a sudden flash of desperate indignation crossing his face. “It was Dominic! Dominic found out she was going to the Feds; he panicked because his name was on the secondary asset transfers! He’s the one who paid the mechanic at the Waukegan garage to sever the brake lines! I just cleaned up the paperwork afterward! I just wrote the missing person narrative so you wouldn't go on a rampage and get yourself locked up for the rest of your natural life!”
Vincent stood completely still.
The revelation hit the room like a physical blow. Not Charles alone. Dominic, his own blood cousin, the man he had trusted with the day-to-day operations of the Moretti shipping empire, was the one who had sent Sophia’s car plunging into the icy depths of Lake Michigan.
“Where is Dominic now?” Vincent asked, his voice so quiet it was barely audible.
“He’s… he’s heading for his private airstrip in Dupage County,” Charles blurted out, selling his co-conspirator down the river without a moment's hesitation. “He has a flight booked to Zurich under an alias at five o’clock this morning. He took the backup flash drives with the Swiss bank routing codes from my office safe before he left!”
Vincent stared down at the lawyer for a long, quiet moment.
Then, without a single word of threat or anger, Vincent turned around and walked out of the holding cell.
May you like
“Boss?” the guard at the door asked, stepping forward.
“Keep him locked in here,” Vincent said over his shoulder as he walked down the brick hallway toward the main staircase. “And make sure he has plenty of water. I’m going to need him breathing when the U.S. Attorney’s office opens at nine o'clock.”
