Chapter 72 The Interrogation

Chapter 72 The Interrogation
George King woke to darkness and the taste of blood.

His head throbbed, a deep, pounding ache that told him he'd been hit hard and hadn't woken up quickly. His wrists were bound behind his back with something tight and unforgiving. Plastic, probably. The kind that cut into skin if you struggled.

He didn't struggle. He'd been a cop long enough to know that the first rule of captivity was to conserve energy, gather information, wait for the right moment.

The last thing he remembered: the facility. Chaos. Gunfire and smoke and the scream of alarms. He'd been covering the extraction, making sure no one followed Benito and Lucia out. Then a figure in the shadows, a blow to the head, and nothing.

How long had he been out? Hours? Minutes? He couldn't tell. The darkness was complete, the silence absolute.

He tested his bonds again, gently this time, feeling for weakness. The plastic was tight, but there was a little give. Maybe, if he could find something sharp, he could–

A voice spoke from the darkness.

"Detective King. You've been very busy."

King froze. His eyes scanned the blackness, searching for the source. Nothing. Just the voice, calm and amused, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

"Who's there?"

A soft laugh. Then a click, and a single light flared to life, a desk lamp, aimed at the floor, casting long shadows across a small, windowless room. Concrete walls. A single metal door. And in the corner, a figure sitting in a chair, watching him.

The figure leaned forward into the light.

He was old. That was the first thing King noticed. Old in the way that mountains were old, weathered, enduring, carved by centuries of wind and time. His face was a roadmap of wrinkles, his eyes deep-set and dark, his hair thin and white. But his hands, his hands were steady, strong, the hands of a man who had spent a lifetime doing terrible things and never once regretted them.

"Who are you?" King's voice was rough, but steady.

The old man smiled. It was not a warm expression.

"My name," he said, "is Lorenzo Moretti. And you, Detective, have been meddling in things you don't understand."

King's heart stumbled. Lorenzo Moretti. The man whose name came up everywhere in his investigation.

"You're supposed to be bedridden someone."

"I'm supposed to be a lot of things." Lorenzo rose from his chair, moving with the careful precision of someone carrying old wounds. He walked to King, circled him slowly, studying him like a specimen. "I'm supposed to be dead. I'm supposed to be forgotten. I'm supposed to be the boss of all bosses." He stopped in front of King, looking down at him. "Instead, I'm here. And you're here. And we're going to have a conversation."

King met his eyes. "I've got nothing to say to you."

"You'll be surprised what people say when the alternative is pain." Lorenzo gestured, and a second figure emerged from the shadows, a man King hadn't seen, huge and silent, holding a length of pipe. "This is Enzo. He's very good at his job. He's been doing it for forty years, and in all that time, no one has ever refused to talk. Not forever."

King's jaw tightened. He'd been trained for this. Every cop knew the risks, knew that someday they might end up in a room like this, facing men like these. The training said: hold out as long as you can. Give them nothing. Wait for rescue or death.

The training hadn't prepared him for the weight of that pipe, or the look in Lorenzo's eyes, or the absolute certainty that no one was coming.

"I don't know anything," King said.

Lorenzo laughed, a dry, rasping sound. "Detective. You've been running with my niece for days. You were at the facility. You helped free my Lucia Marini." He leaned close, his breath cold on King's face. "You know everything."

King said nothing.

Lorenzo nodded to Enzo.

The first blow took King in the ribs. He heard something crack, felt fire explode through his side, and bit down on a scream. The second blow came before he could recover, his kidney, this time, a deep, sickening pain that made him retch.

Enzo was methodical. Professional. He worked his way across King's body with the patience of a man who had all the time in the world. Ribs. Kidneys. Shoulders. Knees. Nothing that would kill, nothing that would leave permanent damage. Just pain. Endless, overwhelming pain.

Through it all, King didn't talk. Couldn't talk. Wouldn't talk.

Lorenzo watched from his chair, his expression mild, almost bored.

"You're impressively stubborn," he said after what felt like hours. "I respect that. But stubbornness won't save you. It will only make this last longer." He leaned forward. "Tell me about the Legacy Trust."

King's eyes dimmed.

"What the hell is a Legacy Trust?" He asked while trying to catch his breath.

Lorenzo smiled. "Ah I see you don't know the whole story. "

"I don't know anything."

"The LegacyTrust," Lorenzo repeated. "The very reason for all this bloodshed. The key to everything. If you don't what it is, or it's location, then youareof no use to me."

King shook his head, a small movement, but enough.

Lorenzo sighed. "Enzo. The fingers."

Enzo reached for King's left hand.

The door opened before he could touch it.

A man stood in the doorway, one of Lorenzo's soldiers, his face pale, his voice urgent.

"Don Moretti. We have a problem."

Lorenzo's eyes narrowed. "What kind of problem?"

"The Rinaldi family. They're mobilizing. Every man, every weapon. They're heading toward the farmhouse where the Vitale children are right now."

Lorenzo was silent for a long moment. Then, slowly, he smiled.

"Aldo. Always so predictable. I would have thought he would think things through before allowing vengeance to cloud his senses." He looked at King, then at Enzo. "Finish him. Quickly. Then join the others."

He walked out, leaving King alone with Enzo and the length of pipe.

Enzo stepped forward, his face blank, his purpose clear.

King closed his eyes and waited for the end.

The end didn't come.

Instead, a new voice, familiar, urgent, close.

"King! Where are you?"

King's eyes snapped open. "Dante?"

Footsteps. Shouts. The crash of bodies. Then the door burst open again, and Dante Vitale stood in the doorway, gun raised, his eyes scanning the room.

He saw Enzo. Saw the pipe. Saw King, broken and bleeding on the floor.

Dante fired twice. Enzo dropped without a sound.

Dante crossed the room in three steps, dropping to his knees beside King.

"You look like hell."

King managed a weak smile. "Feel like it too."

Dante pulled out a knife and sliced through the plastic bonds. King's arms fell free, and he gasped as the blood rushed back into his hands.

"Can you walk?"

"I can try."

Dante pulled him up, supporting his weight. "We need to move. Rinaldi's army is coming, and Lorenzo's men are gathering. This place is about to become a war zone."

They stumbled toward the door, toward whatever waited outside.

Behind them, Enzo's body lay still, and the room fell silent.

But somewhere in the darkness, a clock was still ticking.

And Aldo Rinaldi was closer now.