Chapter 6 - The Interrogation Room in the East Wing
The sub-basement of the Hudson Valley estate had undergone a swift, brutal renovation.
What had once been a forgotten wine cellar and a makeshift dungeon for an innocent mother was now a fully functional, high-security tribunal room. Heavy steel reinforcement plates had been welded over the damp stone walls, and powerful halogen work-lights cast an unforgiving, glaring white illumination across the concrete floor.
Nathan Cross sat handcuffed to a heavy iron chair bolted directly into the foundation. His pristine white shirt was stained with dust and sweat, his silver hair disheveled. The arrogant, untouchable adviser was gone; in his place sat a desperate, cornered man realizing the absolute finality of his defeat.
Across from him, sitting behind a scarred oak table, sat Dominic.
He wasn't shouting. He wasn't pacing. He simply sat in silence, turning a heavy silver pocket watch over and over in his palm—the watch his father had given him on the day he took over the family business.
“It’s cold down here, Nathan,” Dominic said quietly, breaking the heavy silence.
Nathan lifted his head, his eyes bloodshot and defiant. “Go to hell, Dom.”
“We’re already there,” Dominic replied, stopping the pocket watch with a sharp click. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “Let’s talk about the logistics. The New York families. Who else signed off on your little coup?”
“You think I’ll tell you?” Nathan laughed bitterly, a dry, hacking sound. “Even if I did, you wouldn't survive the week. The commission in Manhattan is already dividing up your territory. The docks, the warehouses, the shipping lanes—they belong to the Brooklyn crew now.”
Dominic didn't react with anger. Instead, a slow, cold smile touched his lips.
“Nathan, you always underestimated me,” Dominic said softly. “You thought because I wanted to clean up the ledger, I had grown weak. You forgot how I earned the name The Butcher of the Hudson before I turned thirty.”
Before Nathan could reply, the heavy steel door to the tribunal room swung open.
Marcus stepped inside, holding a secure satellite phone. His face wore an expression of grim satisfaction.
“Boss,” Marcus said, placing the phone on the table and hitting the speaker button. “We intercepted an encrypted transmission coming out of the Brooklyn safehouse. It’s Don Salvatore.”
A gravelly, aging voice crackled through the tinny speaker of the phone.
“Cross? Cross, you bastard, answer me! Did you take care of Vale? The shipment from Marseille is waiting at the docks, and we need the new access codes—!”
Nathan’s face drained of whatever color he had left. He stared at the phone in horror.
Dominic reached out, his thumb pressing the speaker button to transmit.
“Salvatore,” Dominic’s voice boomed across the room, cold as arctic ice.
The line went dead silent for three agonizing seconds.
“...Vale?” Salvatore’s voice dropped, laced with sudden, palpable panic. “You’re... you’re alive?”
“Very much so,” Dominic said smoothly. “Your star pupil, Nathan, is sitting right across from me. He sends his regards. By the way, Salvatore... your shipping containers in Marseille? My men seized them forty minutes ago.”
“You son of a bitch—!”
“If you ever want to see your containers—or your nephews currently running your Brooklyn warehouse—again,” Dominic interrupted, his tone hardening into absolute steel, “you will call off every hit squad you sent toward my estate, and you will sign over your stake in the Atlantic shipping lanes by midnight. Do we understand each other?”
The line sputtered with furious static, but the reality of the situation was inescapable. Salvatore was outmaneuvered, outgunned, and outsmarted.
“...Done,” Salvatore spat out before slamming the phone down.
Dominic clicked the phone off and looked back at Nathan.
Nathan was shaking. The illusion of his grand master plan had completely shattered around him. He had gambled everything on a coup, believing he was the brains behind the empire, only to discover he was nothing more than a disposable pawn.
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“You... you ruined everything,” Nathan whispered, staring at the floor.
“No, Nathan,” Dominic said, standing up and buttoning his suit jacket. “I just took back what was mine.”
