Chapter 5 - The Interrogation Below
Down in the wine cellar, the air was cool, damp, and smelled of oak barrels and wet stone.
The cellar had been constructed beneath the original foundation of the estate in the 1920s. Thick stone walls muffled every sound from the world above.
Dr. Adrian Hale was tied to a sturdy oak chair beneath a single overhead light bulb. His silk shirt was torn at the collar, his silver hair disheveled, and his expensive leather shoes were coated in concrete dust.
Vincent walked down the stone stairs slowly, his heavy leather boots echoing through the cavernous space. I followed three steps behind him, holding a stainless steel medical tray containing clean syringes, saline solutions, and a blood pressure monitor.
I didn't want to be down here. But Vincent had insisted that if Hale suffered a stress-induced cardiac episode during questioning, I was to keep him conscious.
Marco stood behind Hale’s chair, his face completely expressionless.
“Please, Vincent!” Hale sobbed, his refined persona completely shattered. “I swear to you, I was forced into this! They threatened my family! They threatened my daughter in Chicago!”
Vincent stopped two feet in front of Hale. He didn't raise his hand. He didn't pull a weapon. He simply looked down at the doctor with a cold, terrifying detachment.
“Who paid you, Adrian?” Vincent asked quietly.
“I don't know!” Hale cried out. “It was handled through an anonymous offshore escrow account in the Cayman Islands! Half a million dollars was deposited six weeks ago, with another half million promised upon Eleanor’s burial!”
“Liar,” Marco grunted, stepping forward.
“Wait,” I interrupted, stepping between Marco and the chair.
Vincent raised an eyebrow at me. “Clara. Step back.”
“Look at his face, Mr. Vale,” I said, pointing at Hale. “He’s terrified, but he’s not lying about the offshore account. Look at his hands. He’s experiencing acute withdrawal tremors.”
Vincent frowned, looking down at Hale’s fingers, which were twitching uncontrollably against his knees.
“Withdrawal from what?” Vincent asked.
“Not alcohol,” I said, kneeling beside the tray and examining Hale’s eyes. “His pupils are dilated, his skin is flushed, and his resting heart rate is over one hundred and twenty. He’s an addict. Advanced prescription opioid abuse—probably fentanyl or high-potency oxycodone.”
Hale gasped, dropping his head in shame. “How... how did you know?”
“I worked three years in an addiction recovery unit,” I said flatly. “You weren't paid just in cash. Whoever compromised you supplied your habit. A doctor with a high-profile practice in Westchester can’t easily buy large quantities of street narcotics without raising red flags among his peers or the DEA. Someone was feeding your addiction in exchange for access to Eleanor Vale.”
Vincent’s eyes darkened into something far more dangerous than simple anger. He looked at Hale with absolute disgust.
“Who supplied the pills, Adrian?” Vincent asked, his voice chillingly smooth. “Who gave you the prescription bottles that didn't have pharmacy labels?”
Hale swallowed hard, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.
“It... it was Julian’s driver,” Hale whispered, his voice cracking. “Rocco. Rocco brought the packages to my private clinic every Tuesday night.”
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Julian Vale. Vincent’s thirty-two-year-old cousin. The man who managed Vale Holdings’ commercial real estate portfolio and frequently complained at board meetings that the family was too conservative in its investments.
Vincent didn't look surprised. He looked tired—a deep, ancient exhaustion that seemed to settle into his bones.
“Julian,” Vincent murmured softly to himself. “My uncle’s son. The boy I paid college tuition for.”
Vincent turned to Marco. “Keep Dr. Hale down here. Give him water, keep him alive, but do not let him sleep.”
Vincent turned toward the stairs, looking back at me.
“Clara,” he said. “Come with me.”
We walked up the winding stone staircase into the warm, carpeted hallways of the main floor. The contrast between the dark torture chamber below and the opulent grandeur above was jarring.
“What are you going to do to Julian?” I asked quietly as we walked toward his study.
Vincent stopped in the middle of the hallway, under the grand crystal chandelier. He turned to face me, his silhouette framed by the towering marble columns of the foyer.
“My cousin tried to murder my grandmother for a seat at a boardroom table,” Vincent said, his dark eyes meeting mine. “In my world, there is only one punishment for treason against your own blood.”
“Vincent...” I breathed, stepping closer to him, my hand instinctively rising toward his arm before I caught myself and lowered it. “If you kill him, you prove that everything people say about you is true. You become the monster Julian wanted everyone to think you were.”
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Vincent looked down at my face, his scar pale against his jaw.
“I am a monster, Clara,” he said quietly. “That’s why this family is still standing.”
