CHAPTER 20 THE TORTURE INTERROGATION
The basement lights hummed, flickering against the concrete walls. Owen Pryor sagged in the chair, wrists bound tight enough to leave angry marks. Paul Rizzo cracked his knuckles, rolling his shoulders like he was warming up for a workout.
"Last chance," Rizzo said. His voice was conversational. "Tell us where Evelyn's stashed the rest of it."
Owen spat on the floor. The blood in it was fresh. "Go to hell."
Rizzo sighed, like Owen was being unreasonable. He pulled a pair of needle-nose pliers from his back pocket. Owen's breath hitched.
Dominic Moretti leaned against the far wall, arms crossed. He'd been silent until now, watching. "Enough." His voice cut through the room. "You're being gentle, Paul."
Rizzo paused. "Boss?"
Dominic pushed off the wall. "He's not talking because he thinks we'll stop. Show him he's wrong."
Rizzo's grin was all teeth. He gripped Owen's pinky with the pliers.
Owen screamed before the bone even snapped.
——
Dario Vitale watched the security feed on his phone, his expression flat. Marco stood beside him, arms crossed, jaw tight.
"They're going to kill him," Marco said.
"Not yet." Dario pocketed the phone. "Dominic wants information, not a corpse."
Marco grabbed his arm. "And when they get it? You think Dominic's just gonna let him walk?"
Dario didn't pull away. "No."
"Then what the fuck are you doing?"
Dario met his gaze. "Intercepting the extraction team."
Marco cursed under his breath. "You don't even know where they're keeping him."
"Warehouse district. Old Moretti storage units." Dario checked his watch. "Vincent's orders came through an hour ago—cleanup after interrogation."
Marco's grip tightened. "You go against Dominic on this, it won't be a warning next time. It'll be a bullet."
Dario smiled, cold and sharp. "Then I'd better move fast."
——
Owen's breathing was ragged, his fingers a ruined mess. Rizzo wiped the pliers on his shirt, humming.
"Still nothing?" Dominic asked.
Owen spat again, this time missing. "You think... she'd trust me with the locations?" He coughed. "Evelyn's smarter than that."
Dominic crouched in front of him. "Then you're useless."
Rizzo raised the pliers again.
Owen closed his eyes.
The overhead light burst in a shower of sparks.
Darkness.
Then gunfire.
——
New detail: The storage unit's locks are keyed to Moretti family signet rings. Without one, the doors won't budge.
Owen heard the scuffle—bodies hitting concrete, a choked-off yell that sounded like Rizzo. He forced his eyes open, but the darkness was absolute. A hand clamped over his mouth before he could make a sound.
"Quiet." The voice was low, unfamiliar.
The binds around Owen’s wrists went slack. He nearly toppled forward, but the stranger yanked him upright. Owen’s ruined fingers screamed in protest.
"Move." The man dragged him toward the sound of gunfire.
Owen stumbled, his legs numb from the chair. Behind them, Dominic’s voice cut through the chaos. "Seal the exits!"
A door slammed. Metal screeched as something heavy barred their path. The stranger cursed, shoving Owen against the wall. "Stay here."
Footsteps pounded closer. Owen pressed his back to the cold concrete, breath shallow. The stranger stepped into the open, gun raised.
The muzzle flash lit up the room for half a second—just long enough for Owen to see Dominic standing ten feet away, his own weapon leveled.
The stranger fired first.
Dominic staggered but didn’t go down. The bullet had grazed his shoulder. He returned fire, and the stranger dropped with a grunt.
Owen didn’t wait. He bolted left, toward the only other door he remembered. His shoulder hit the metal, but it didn’t give.
No signet ring.
Dominic’s laugh was a razor against his spine. "You’re locked in with me, Pryor."
Then the lights flickered back on.
The stranger was gone. A trail of blood led to an open vent in the far wall.
Dominic wiped his shoulder, smearing red. "Guess we’re doing this the hard way." He tossed the pliers to Rizzo, who was hauling himself up from the floor.
Owen’s gaze darted to the vent. Too small for him.
Rizzo cracked his neck. "Let’s try this again."
The gunshot came from above.
A sniper round shattered the overhead bulb, plunging them back into darkness. Owen didn’t think—he lunged for Dominic.
The fight was ugly, desperate. Owen’s broken fingers made every punch agony, but he got one good hit in—an elbow to Dominic’s throat.
Choking, Dominic reeled back.
The vent clanged open. "Now!" the stranger barked.
Owen didn’t hesitate. He dove for the opening just as Rizzo’s bullet tore through the space where his head had been.
Hands grabbed him, pulling him into the narrow shaft.
Dominic’s roar of fury followed them into the dark.
Evelyn's breath hitched as the bullet whined past her ear, embedding itself in the warehouse wall behind her. She'd misread the angle—Rizzo wasn't aiming for Owen. He'd been herding them.
"Move!" Dario's command cut through the gunfire. He dragged her behind a stack of shipping crates as another shot splintered the wood where her head had been. His grip on her wrist was iron, his voice low and urgent. "They're not trying to kill him. They want him intact."
She understood then. The sniper fire, the careful spacing of bullets—this wasn't a hit. It was a capture pattern. The Morettis didn't just want Owen dead. They wanted him alive first.
Marco materialized at Dario's flank, pressing a fresh magazine into his hand. "Vincent's orders came through twenty minutes ago. Wants Pryor breathing when they bring him in."
Dario's jaw tightened. He spared a glance toward where Owen was using the overturned forklift as cover, his left arm hanging useless at his side. "That complicates things."
Evelyn flexed her fingers against the grip of her stolen pistol.
The world had just shifted under her feet.
She'd assumed this was about silencing a witness.
But the rules here were newly clear—this was about interrogation.
About leverage. And that meant they had seconds, not minutes, before Dominic's team closed the net.
Paul Rizzo's laughter carried across the warehouse floor. "Come on out, Crane. You know how this ends." A bullet kicked up concrete near her foot. "Better him than you."
Dario's eyes met hers in the half-dark. No words needed. They both knew the price of that particular lie.
Evelyn’s fingers twitched against the pistol’s grip, the weight of it suddenly unfamiliar. Rizzo’s taunt slithered through the air again—Better him than you—but the math didn’t add up. If the Morettis wanted Owen alive, why waste bullets herding them? Why not merely rush the forklift?
Marco shifted beside Dario, his elbow brushing Evelyn’s arm as he chambered a round. "They’re stalling," he muttered, barely audible.
Dario’s gaze flicked to the warehouse’s rafters, then back to Evelyn. The realization hit her like a second bullet: the gunfire wasn’t just about control. It was a distraction.
A metallic click echoed from above. Evelyn craned her neck just as the net dropped—not on Owen, but on her. Heavy nylon cords tangled around her arms, yanking her backward before she could raise the pistol. Dario lunged, but Marco’s hand clamped down on his shoulder, holding him in place.
"Wrong move," Marco said, voice flat.
Evelyn hit the concrete hard, the net tightening as she struggled. The pistol skittered out of reach. Across the warehouse, Owen’s shout was cut short by the unmistakable sound of a taser crackling to life.
Rizzo stepped into view, holstering his sidearm. "Told you it was easier," he said, nudging the net with his boot. "Vincent wants all the loose ends."
Evelyn’s stomach dropped. She’d been so focused on Owen being the target, she hadn’t considered she might be part of the equation. Dario’s face was stone, but his fingers flexed at his sides—calculating, reassessing. Marco hadn’t just handed him a fresh magazine. He’d been waiting for this.
The warehouse door creaked open, and Dominic Moretti himself stepped through, flanked by two enforcers dragging a limp Owen between them. "Evelyn Crane," he said, crouching beside the net. His cufflinks gleamed in the dim light. "You didn’t really think this was just about him, did you?"
Dario took a half-step forward, but Marco’s grip tightened. "Don’t," Marco warned.
Dominic sighed, like he was disappointed. "The accountant talks, you both walk. That was always the deal." He tapped the net with one polished shoe. "But you had to go and make it personal."
Evelyn’s breath came fast now. She’d misjudged the rules entirely. This wasn’t just a grab for Owen—it was a play for her, for whatever she knew. And Dario… Dario had known.
His eyes met hers again, and this time, there was no silent agreement. Just a cold, unreadable distance.
Dominic straightened, brushing imaginary dust from his slacks. "Get them both in the van."
Rizzo grinned, reaching for the net. "Time to pay up, Crane."
Evelyn twisted, fingers scrambling for the pistol’s slide just beyond the cords. Too far.
Then the warehouse lights went out.
Not a flicker—a total blackout.
The van doors slammed shut, sealing them in darkness.
Owen Pryor's shoulder hit the metal wall as the vehicle lurched forward, his hands still bound behind him with the same rough cord that bit into his wrists.
Across from him, Rizzo's silhouette shifted in the dim light, the glint of a switchblade flicking open.
"Time to talk, Pryor." Rizzo leaned in, the knife's tip pressing just beneath Owen's jaw. "You've been sniffing around places you don't belong. I want to know why."
Owen exhaled through his nose, forcing his pulse to steady. "I don't know what you think I—"
The knife flicked sideways. A thin line of heat bloomed across his throat.
"Wrong answer." Rizzo's voice was conversational, like they were discussing the weather.
"See, here's the thing—you don't get to play dumb. Not when you've been tailing Moretti shipments. Not when you've got a badge in your back pocket."
His free hand patted Owen's jacket, extracting the FBI credentials with deliberate slowness.