CHAPTER 20 THE TORTURE INTERROGATION #3
Paul grabbed Owen’s arm, pressing the needle in before he could tense. The burn made Owen hiss, his muscles locking for a second before he forced himself still.
Dominic watched, eyes dark. "Now," he said. "Let’s talk about Evelyn."
Owen's vision blurred at the edges, the room tilting. He gritted his teeth. "Go to hell."
Dominic sighed, nodding to Paul. "Again."
The second needle went in. Owen’s body jerked, his breath coming in sharp bursts. The walls felt too close, the air too thick.
Dario leaned in, voice low. "You can end this anytime."
Owen’s laugh was rough, uneven. "Like hell."
Dominic’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Good. Then we’ll keep going."
Paul reached for another syringe. Owen’s skin crawled with the anticipation of it—the burn, the slow unraveling.
And then the door opened.
Vincent Moretti stood in the threshold, his expression unreadable.
Everyone froze.
Dominic didn’t look surprised. Just annoyed. "You’re early."
Vincent’s gaze swept the room, lingering on Owen’s pale face, the fresh needle marks. Then he said, voice quiet, "Get out."
Not a request.
Dario was already moving, ushering Paul back. Marco followed without a word.
Dominic hesitated, just for a second, before rising. "This isn’t over."
Vincent didn’t answer.
Owen sagged in the chair, sweat dripping down his temples. His vision swam, but he caught the way Vincent’s fingers flexed at his sides—like he was holding back from something.
Then Vincent stepped forward, shutting the door behind him.
The lock clicked.
Owen was alone with him.
Dario Vitale leaned against the back wall of the dimly lit office, arms crossed, watching as Marco Bruno tossed a manila envelope onto the desk in front of Vincent Moretti. The room smelled of leather and gun oil, the hum of the air conditioning barely masking the tension.
"Intercepted this an hour ago," Marco said, his voice rough as gravel. "Rizzo’s boys were sloppy. Left it sitting in a fucking diner booth like takeout menus."
Vincent didn’t touch the envelope. His gaze flicked to Dario, silent, waiting.
Dario pushed off the wall and stepped forward, plucking the envelope off the desk with two fingers.
He didn’t need to open it to know what was inside—Marco wouldn’t have brought it if it wasn’t critical.
Still, he flipped it open, scanned the contents: grainy surveillance photos, time-stamped logs, a medical report with Owen Pryor’s name printed bold at the top.
"Who else has seen this?" Dario asked, his voice even.
"Just us," Marco said. "And the dumb fucks who left it lying around. They’re in the trunk of my car now, if you wanna ask ‘em real polite."
Dario exhaled through his nose, slow. The medical report detailed Owen’s condition—fever, erratic vitals, signs of withdrawal that didn’t match any known substance. The photos showed him sweating through his shirt in an alley, hands shaking too badly to light a cigarette.
Vincent finally spoke. "How long has he been like this?"
"Four days," Dario said. "Evelyn’s been keeping him contained."
"And she didn’t think to mention it?" Dominic Moretti cut in from the corner, arms crossed. His knuckles were freshly split, the scent of antiseptic clinging to him.
Dario didn’t look at him. "She mentioned it to me."
A beat of silence. Then Vincent’s fingers tapped once against the desk. "You didn’t bring it to me."
It wasn’t a question.
Dario met his gaze, unflinching. "I was handling it."
"Handling it," Vincent repeated, soft. "By letting him deteriorate where anyone could see?"
Marco shifted his weight, jaw tight. "The kid’s a liability right now. If the wrong people get wind of this—"
"They already have," Dario said. He tossed the envelope back onto the desk. "This didn’t come from Rizzo’s idiots. They’re just the couriers. Someone else wanted us to see it."
Vincent’s expression didn’t change, but his thumb rubbed slowly over the edge of the desk. "Who?"
Dario didn’t answer immediately. He glanced at the medical report again, at the numbers that didn’t add up. Then, quietly: "That’s the question, isn’t it?"
Dominic pushed off the wall, pacing like a caged animal. "We can’t just sit here theorizing. If Owen’s compromised—"
"He’s not," Dario cut in. "He’s sick. There’s a difference."
"Sick with what?" Dominic shot back.
Dario didn’t know. That was the problem.
Vincent leaned back in his chair, studying Dario with a look that had ended careers. "You vouched for him."
"I did," Dario said.
"And now?"
Dario held his gaze. "Now I’ll fix it."
Vincent didn’t blink. "You have twenty-four hours."
A dismissal. A test.
Dario nodded once, then turned for the door. Marco fell into step beside him, the weight of his silence heavier than any words.
Outside, the hallway was too bright, the fluorescents humming overhead. Marco waited until the office door clicked shut behind them before speaking.
"Twenty-four hours," he muttered. "Fucking generous."
Dario didn’t answer. He was already running through the list of who could have intercepted that intel—and why they’d wanted it delivered right into Vincent’s hands.
One thing was clear.
Someone was making a move.
And Owen Pryor was the opening play.
Dario exhaled through his nose, watching the numbers on the security feed flicker. The safehouse basement smelled of damp concrete and gun oil. Marco shifted beside him, the weight of the Glock pressing into his ribs a dull reminder of their position.
On the monitor, Dominic Moretti knelt in the center of the room, hands zip-tied behind his back. Blood trickled from his split lip. Paul Rizzo stood over him with a tire iron, breathing hard. "Last chance," Paul said. "Tell us where the shipment went."
Dominic spat red onto the concrete. "Fuck you."
Paul raised the tire iron.
Dario's finger hovered over the intercom button. Strategy said let it happen. Dominic had stolen from the family. The punishment was written in blood and precedent. But the angle of Dominic's shoulders—too much like Anthony's before the warehouse explosion—made his throat tighten.
"Christ," Marco muttered. "He's gonna cave the kid's skull in."
Dario pressed the intercom. "Stand down."
Paul froze. On the monitor, his head jerked toward the camera.
"Sir?" Paul's voice crackled through the speaker.
"Bring him upstairs." Dario released the button. The muscles in his jaw ached from clenching.
Marco's boot scraped against the floor as he turned. "That's mercy, not sense. He stole three hundred grand worth of product."
"Anthony's boy." Dario straightened his cufflinks. The silver was cool against his wrists. "First offense."
"Vincent won't see it that way."
"Then don't tell him." Dario met Marco's gaze. The fluorescent light caught the scar through Marco's eyebrow, turning it white. "You got a problem with that?"
Marco snorted. "Yeah. You're getting soft." But he pulled out his phone and hit a speed dial. "Yo. Bring the cleanup kit to the east garage. No, the plastic sheets this time."
Footsteps echoed in the hallway outside. Paul hauled Dominic through the door, the kid's knees scraping the threshold. Fresh bruises mottled his forearms.
Dario crouched in front of him. Dominic's breath smelled of copper and fear. "You're alive because I choose for you to be." He flicked a piece of gravel from Dominic's collar. "Steal from me again, and I'll let Paul finish."
Dominic's Adam's apple bobbed. "Yes, sir."
Marco yanked Dominic upright by his belt. "Move. You're scrubbing blood out of my trunk at sunrise."
As they dragged him away, Dario studied the thin crack in the basement wall behind where Dominic had knelt. A hairline fracture, barely visible. But it hadn't been there yesterday.
He made a note to have the foundation inspected.
The basement door clicked shut behind them, muffling Dominic's uneven footsteps. Dario stayed crouched, fingertips brushing the crack in the concrete. A fine dusting of grit came away on his skin. He rubbed it between thumb and forefinger, then wiped his hands on his slacks.
The intercom hissed static. Paul's voice: "You want me to stay with the kid or—"
"Go home," Dario said. He didn't raise his voice. The speaker caught the gravel in it anyway.
The light above the security monitors flickered.
One of the screens glitched—Dominic's empty interrogation room, frozen on a distorted frame of the bloodstain on the floor.
Dario reached for the power switch, then stopped.
His reflection in the dead screen showed the lines around his mouth deeper than they'd been last month.
Marco's cigarette case clicked open behind him. "Vincent hears about this, it's not merely your ass."
Dario turned. Marco had a cigarette between his teeth but hadn't lit it. The tremor in his fingers was new.
"Since when do you care about Vincent's opinions?" Dario asked.
"Since the old man started forgetting which side of the family pays his chemo bills." Marco pocketed the cigarette. "Dominic's crew runs with the Calabrese now. You think they won't hear their boy got picked up?"
The basement pipes groaned. A drip of condensation fell from the ceiling into a puddle near Dario's left shoe.
"Let them hear," he said. He nudged the puddle with his toe. The water rippled, distorting his reflection. "You ever notice how quiet it gets before a storm?"
Marco's laugh came out jagged. "Yeah. And after? Somebody's always gotta rebuild."
Dario walked to the stairs. The metal railing was cold under his palm. "Then we'll need guys who remember who gave them a second chance."