PART 6: The Interrogation in the Basement
PART 6: The Interrogation in the Basement
Underworld justice leaves no room for mercy.
The basement holding room beneath the Moretti estate was a windowless, soundproof chamber designed for men who crossed lines that could never be uncrossed.
The concrete walls were thick, the lighting was a harsh, glaring overhead fluorescent bulb, and the air always carried the faint, metallic scent of cold stone and absolute finality.
Evelyn Crane sat handcuffed to a heavy iron chair bolted directly into the floor, her expensive blouse stained with sweat, her hair completely unraveled from its pristine bun.
When the heavy steel door swung open, she flinched violently.
I walked into the room, flanked by Dante Moretti, who stood like a silent monolith by the door with his arms crossed over his chest.
I tossed the heavy leather ledger onto the metal table in front of her.
It landed with a dull, heavy thud.
Evelyn looked down at the book, her eyes dilating with pure, primal terror as she recognized the gold-stamped initials on the cover.
“You... you found the subfloor box,” she whispered, her voice cracking into a dry rattle.
“I found your master archive, Evelyn,” I said, pulling up a steel chair and sitting down directly across from her, resting my elbows on my knees. “Money laundering, vendor extortion, staff blackmail, and embezzlement totaling over four hundred thousand dollars across five years.”
She tried to straighten her posture, though the handcuffs anchored her firmly to the chair.
“Mr. Moretti... please,” she began, her tone shifting into a desperate, pleading whine. “I can make it right! I can transfer the offshore funds back to your corporate accounts today! Just let me leave the city—you’ll never hear from me again!”
“Leave the city?” I echoed, tilting my head. “Evelyn, you spent years stealing from my accounts while making a disabled four-year-old girl apologize for getting hurt by your negligence. You used my name to terrorize innocent people who had nowhere else to turn.”
I stood up slowly, looking down at her with absolute disdain.
“In my world, there are rules. You steal from family, you pay with your freedom. You torture children, you forfeit your right to walk under the open sky.”
I turned toward Dante.
“Call the federal task force handling white-collar financial crimes in downtown Chicago,” I instructed calmly. “Hand them the ledger, the passport box, and the bank bags. Tell them a cooperative witness is waiting in my basement to confess to every single federal felony she committed over the last decade.”
Evelyn let out a choked, hysterical sob, thrashing wildly against the handcuffs.
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“No! Not federal prison! Please, Mr. Moretti, kill me instead! Just don't send me there!”
“Prison is too good for you, Evelyn,” I said, walking toward the heavy steel door. “You’re going to spend the rest of your natural life reflecting on your administrative budget in a twelve-by-eight concrete box.”
