Chapter 7 - The Interrogation of the Traitor
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Deep beneath the polished marble floors of the estate, the air smelled of damp concrete and copper.
Victor stood in the center of the soundproof basement, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his expression a mask of absolute, unforgiving stone. Dmitri stood quietly in the corner, holding a pair of heavy tactical gloves.
Leon Mercer sat strapped to a heavy steel chair. His face was bruised, his expensive suit ruined. He was trembling, completely broken by the hours of psychological terror before Victor had even entered the room.
"We grew up together, Leon," Victor said softly, pacing slowly around the chair. "We bled together in the streets of Queens before we ever wore these suits. I gave you the waterfront. I gave you half the city’s legitimate fronts. Why wasn't it enough?"
"V-Victor, please," Leon sobbed, spitting blood onto the floor. "I was backed into a corner. They had leverage. They threatened my family."
Victor stopped in front of him. He leaned down, resting his hands on the armrests of the steel chair, bringing his face inches from the traitor.
"You do not have a family, Leon," Victor whispered. "You have a bank account and an ego. Now, I am going to ask you one time. Who provided the cyanide?"
Leon squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head frantically. "If I tell you, they’ll kill me."
"I am going to kill you," Victor corrected gently. "The only variable left in this equation is how long it takes you to die. Name the backer, Leon. Give me the name, and I will make it quick."
Leon let out a pathetic, shuddering breath. He opened his eyes, staring into the merciless void of his boss's gaze.
"It was Volkov," Leon choked out. "The Russian syndicate. They want the southern ports. But they weren't working alone."
Victor’s eyes narrowed. "Who was the inside contact?"
Leon swallowed hard. "Whitmore. Clara’s father. He promised the Russians unfettered access to the shipping lanes if they helped orchestrate the hit. Clara knew. The engagement was a setup to lower your guard."
Victor stood up slowly. The betrayal didn't shock him; in his world, betrayal was a currency as common as cash. But the confirmation ignited a dark, violent fire in his chest. Clara and the Russians. A dangerous, powerful alliance.
"Thank you, Leon," Victor said softly.
He turned his back on his former friend and looked at Dmitri.
"Make it quick," Victor ordered, walking toward the heavy metal door. "And call the cleaners. We have a war to prepare for."
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As Victor walked up the concrete stairs, a single, muffled gunshot echoed from the basement. He didn't flinch. His mind was already moving ten steps ahead, formulating the destruction of the Whitmore empire.
And at the center of his violent, chaotic thoughts was the quiet, terrifying realization that the only person he could currently trust was a maid sleeping in his guest wing.
