Chapter 7 - The Interrogation in the Dark
Within ten minutes, the gallery was secure. Marcus and his enforcement squad swept through the remaining corridors, rounding up the two backup operatives who had been waiting outside the perimeter fence.
Victor Moretti’s little strike team had been completely dismantled in less than twenty minutes—not by an army of mob enforcers, but by a mafia boss, his head of security, an eleven-year-old dog, and a toddler in purple snow boots.
The captured team leader was tied securely to a heavy oak chair in the estate’s basement wine cellar—a damp, cold room lined with thousands of bottles of vintage Bordeaux that had witnessed more than a few ugly conversations over the decades.
Adrian Mercer sat across from him on a wooden stool, cleaning his fingernails with a small, silver pocket knife. The dim overhead bulb cast harsh shadows across Mercer’s face, making him look every bit the ruthless syndicate boss Chicago feared.
"Tell me why Victor Moretti thinks he can send kindergarten dropouts into my house," Mercer said softly, not even looking up at the battered mercenary tied to the chair.
"Go to hell, Mercer," the man spat, blood leaking from a split lip. "Moretti knows you're expanding into his docks. This was just a warning shot."
Mercer stopped cleaning his nails. He slowly closed the pocket knife with a sharp click, stood up, and walked over to the man, leaning down until their noses were inches apart.
"A warning shot," Mercer repeated, his voice dangerously low. "Your men brought wire cutters, thermal gear, and suppressed automatic weapons into a home where a three-year-old child sleeps. That isn't a warning. That's a declaration of total war."
Before the mercenary could respond, the heavy iron door of the wine cellar creaked open.
Sofia stepped into the room, her face pale, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched a heavy wool blanket around her shoulders. Marcus had tried to stop her upstairs, but the fierce, protective fire in Sofia’s eyes had made even Hawthorne Ridge’s head of security back down.
"Mr. Mercer," Sofia said, her voice shaking with adrenaline and cold fury.
Mercer turned around, straightening his jacket. "Mrs. Carter. You should be upstairs. Marcus was instructed to keep the west wing secure."
"I am done staying upstairs while men with guns turn my life upside down," Sofia snapped, marching right up to the mafia boss without a shred of hesitation. She pointed a finger at the tied-up gunman. "Is this what your life is? Is this what you brought us into? Because if my daughter is going to be caught in the middle of a war between you and Victor Moretti, I am packing our bags tonight, and you can explain to your dog why his new best friend is gone."
The underground cellar went completely dead silent.
Marcus, standing near the doorway, closed his eyes and braced for the explosion. Nobody spoke to Adrian Mercer like that. Nobody gave him ultimatums.
Mercer stared at Sofia. For five long seconds, the air between them crackled with raw, unyielding tension. The cold, untouchable mafia boss and the fierce, terrified mother locked eyes, neither one backing down an inch.
Then, slowly, a strange, ghost of a smile touched the corner of Mercer’s mouth.
"You really think you can just walk away from Hawthorne Ridge now, Mrs. Carter?" Mercer asked quietly. "Moretti knows you're here. The moment you step outside these gates, his men will be waiting to use you as leverage against me. You aren't running away from the war anymore. You're already standing in the middle of it."
Sofia’s breath caught. She knew he was right. The moment Moretti’s goons saw Emma in the hallway, she and her daughter had become targets in a high-stakes turf war.
"Then what do we do?" Sofia asked, her voice cracking slightly, the tough exterior finally giving way to the raw fear beneath. "Just wait for the next attack?"
"No," Mercer said, turning his gaze back to the terrified mercenary tied to the chair. He pulled his phone from his pocket, unlocked it with a single tap, and dialed an outgoing number. "We don't wait."
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He held the phone to his ear, waiting for the line to connect.
"Marcus," Mercer commanded without looking back. "Get the cars ready. We're going to pay Mr. Moretti a very early morning visit."
