Chapter 5 - The Confession in the VaultsThe lower vaults of the Moretti estate were built deep into the bedrock of Manhattan—thick concrete walls, heavy steel vault doors, and absolute isolation from the rest of the world.
An hour after the dinner party dissolved in chaos, I walked down the concrete stairs carrying a thermos of black coffee.
The heavy steel door of the primary holding room stood open.
Inside, Nathan Cross sat handcuffed to a steel chair, his expensive suit wrinkled, his silver hair disheveled, staring blankly at the bare concrete floor.
Ricardo stood near the corner, leaning against the cold wall, smoking a rare cigar, watching his former friend with a look of profound, exhausted disappointment.
He looked up as I entered, stepping forward to take the thermos from my hands.
"You shouldn't be down here, Clara," he said quietly, though there was no heat in his warning.
"I brought coffee," I replied, setting a paper cup on the small metal table beside Nathan. "He looks like he needs it."
Nathan raised his head, his eyes bloodshot and desperate. He looked at me, then at Ricardo.
"You think you won, Moretti?" Nathan laughed hysterically, a harsh, grating sound. "You think handing me over to the feds saves your empire? The commission doesn't care about my trial. They know everything. They know about Elena."
Ricardo went entirely rigid. The cigar in his hand burned a slow ember in the dim light.
"What did you say?" Ricardo whispered.
Nathan smiled bitterly, blood trickling from a split lip where Dante had checked his resistance earlier. "You spent six months tearing New York apart looking for your wife, blaming rival families, blaming Palermo... and you never once looked at who held her corporate power of attorney."
My heart stopped.
"Where is she, Nathan?" I demanded, stepping forward before Ricardo could move.
Nathan sneered at me. "She's not dead, sweetheart. Not yet. But she was inconvenient. She discovered that Nathan and her loving husband’s inner circle were quietly liquidating Moretti Holdings behind his back. So we arranged a little vacation for her—a permanent retreat in a private clinic upstate under heavy sedation, where she can't sign away our profits."
The air in the vault vanished.
Ricardo moved with terrifying speed. He crossed the room in a single leap, grabbing Nathan by the lapels of his suit and hoisting him out of the chair until Nathan’s feet dangled above the concrete.
"Where?" Ricardo roared, his face contorted with a fury so primal it terrified me. "Give me the name of the clinic, Nathan, or I swear to God I will dismantle you piece by piece right here in the dark!"
"The... the Aspen Pines facility... in Westchester," Nathan choked out, his hands clawing weakly at Ricardo’s wrists. "Third floor... room... room 402."
Ricardo dropped him back onto the chair with a heavy thud.
He didn't look back at Nathan. He turned toward Dante, who stood waiting by the door with a tactical assault bag.
"Gather the strike team," Ricardo commanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of rage and overwhelming hope. "We ride in ten minutes."
He stopped as he reached the doorway, looking back at me standing beside the metal table.
May you like
"Clara," he said softly.
"I'm coming with you," I answered before he could even ask.
