Chapter 41 The Interrogation Room
The federal holding facility looked exactly like Alessia had always imagined it would.
Gray on gray. Walls scrubbed clean of personality.
Fluorescent lights that hummed too loudly, too brightly. The air smelled like disinfectant and something older beneath it—stale fear, old sweat, resignation.
This was where people came when the system decided they were finished.
They processed her without ceremony. Fingerprints pressed onto glass. A camera flash for her mugshot. Her watch, her necklace, even the ring she still hadn’t taken off—all dropped into a plastic tray and slid out of reach.
The cuffs never came off.
They walked her down a narrow hallway and into an interrogation room, sat her in a metal chair bolted to the floor, and closed the door behind them.
Then they left her there.
Time stretched. Minutes bled into hours. The chair dug into her spine, the cuffs into her wrists. Her shoulders ached from holding herself still.
Across from her, the two-way mirror stared back. She didn’t bother pretending it wasn’t watching.
She knew the routine. The silence. The waiting. Let the mind spiral. Let doubt creep in. Let exhaustion do their work for them.
She’d been trained for this.
What no one ever trained you for was how it felt when you were the one trapped in the chair.
The door finally opened.
Deputy Director Cohen walked in first, composed as ever. Behind him came the female IA agent. Her badge caught the light when she sat—Agent Sarah Reeves.
They placed their folders on the table, neat and orderly. Their faces gave nothing away.
“Agent Scarpetti,” Cohen said calmly. “Let’s make this simple. Cooperate, and this becomes easier.”
Alessia lifted her head. Her voice surprised her with how steady it sounded. “I didn’t do what you’re accusing me of. The financial records are fabricated. I never opened that offshore account.”
Reeves slid a paper toward her. “Then explain this.”
Bank statements. Transfers. Dates. Amounts. Her name printed neatly at the top.
Her stomach clenched.
“This isn’t real,” Alessia said. “Someone created false documents.”
“Who?” Reeves asked. “And why?”
“I don’t know who,” Alessia admitted. “But why is obvious. You’re burning me. You need a scapegoat.”
Cohen leaned back slightly, folding his hands. “That’s a serious accusation. Why would the FBI burn one of its own?”
“Because I became inconvenient,” Alessia said. “Because I saw things I wasn’t supposed to. Because the Council is involved and you don’t want that exposed.”
For just a fraction of a second, Reeves’s expression flickered.
“The Council,” Cohen repeated evenly. “The alleged shadow organization with no verifiable existence?”
“They exist,” Alessia said. “You know they do.”
“What we know,” Reeves said, her tone sharpening, “is that your reports became increasingly unstable as your operation deteriorated. First vigilantes. Then secret councils. Now an internal conspiracy.” She shook her head. “That sounds like deflection.”
“I’m not deflecting—”
“Then explain the communications,” Cohen cut in.
He placed another stack of papers on the table.
Emails. Encrypted messages. Familiar formatting. Familiar phrasing.
Her blood turned cold.
They looked right. Too right. Her cadence. Her protocols.
But they weren’t hers.
“I never sent these,” Alessia said quietly.
“Or you didn’t think we’d find them.”
“Who am I supposedly talking to?”
Reeves hesitated. “We don’t know. The masking is advanced. But the pattern suggests a foreign handler. Possibly Russian.”
The word hit like a punch.
Russian.
Konstantinova.
Volkov.
They weren’t investigating anymore. They were constructing a story. Alessia Scarpetti as a compromised agent. A liability. A traitor.
“I want a lawyer,” Alessia said.
“Of course you do,” Cohen replied. “But before that, let’s discuss your options.”
“I don’t want a deal.”
“You haven’t heard it yet,” Reeves said, leaning forward.
“We know you were involved with Liam O’Sullivan. Personally. We know you witnessed criminal activity firsthand.”
Alessia felt the room tilt.
“Testify against him,” Cohen said. “Everything you know. We build a RICO case. We dismantle the family.”
“No.”
Reeves continued anyway. “In return, we drop all charges. You enter witness protection. New identity. Clean slate.”
“I said no.”
Cohen studied her. “Why?”
Because she loved him.
Because betraying him once had nearly destroyed her.
Because tearing his life apart would tear hers apart too.
“I won’t testify against Liam O’Sullivan,” Alessia said.
Silence.
Then Cohen stood and opened the door.
Thorne walked in.
Her chest tightened.
He sat down slowly, eyes cold, calculating. “I tried to protect you,” he said. “You didn’t let me.”
“You framed me,” Alessia shot back.
“Evidence that will stand up in court,” Thorne replied.
“We were thorough.”
“Why?”
“Because you became a liability.” He leaned closer. “But I’m still giving you a choice.”
She laughed bitterly. “You call this a choice?”
“Testify,” he said. “Or spend twenty years in prison while we handle the O’Sullivans ourselves.”
“And by ‘handle,’ you mean kill him.”
Thorne smiled thinly. “He’s exposed. Nature has a way of resolving that.”
She saw it then. Clear as day.
They weren’t going to arrest Liam.
They were going to let him die.
“You’re a monster,” she whispered.
“I’m practical.” He stood. “You have twenty-four hours.”
Then he nodded to Reeves.
She slid a photograph across the table.
Alessia looked down.
And broke.
Her grandmother.
Older. Softer. Sitting on a bench with a book in her lap. Peaceful. Watched.
“You said she was with the Council,” Alessia said faintly.
“I said what worked,” Thorne replied. “Her safety depends on you.”
The door closed behind them.
Alessia stared at the photo until the room blurred.
All her sacrifices. All her loyalty. Reduced to leverage.
She lowered her head into her cuffed hands.
And for the first time since this nightmare began, she let herself fall apart.
They watched through the glass as she sobbed.
Twenty-four hours.
No way out.
Only loss.
No matter what she chose.