Chapter 3 - THE INTERROGATION IN 1902|
The gunfire ceased as abruptly as it had started.
Tomaso stepped through the cloud of plaster dust, his weapon still raised. On the floor near the service elevator, Rocco was pinned beneath two heavy Marciano guards, his nose bleeding onto the carpet, while the gunman inside the elevator lay motionless on his back.
"The floor is secure, Boss," Tomaso reported, wiping a streak of drywall dust from his silver hair. "We cut off their secondary team in the basement before they could take the stairs."
Enzo Marciano looked down at me. His coat was dusted with white powder, but his dark hair wasn't even out of place. He reached out a long hand and pulled me to my feet with effortless strength.
"Inside," Enzo said, turning back toward suite 1902.
"Mr. Marciano, please," I pleaded, brushing glass off my apron. "If my supervisor sees me—"
"Your supervisor isn't going to touch you, Amelia," Enzo interrupted, stepping back into the opulent penthouse suite. "Because as of five minutes ago, you don't work for this hotel anymore. You're my primary witness."
Guards dragged Rocco into the living room, throwing him hard onto a velvet armchair. They bound his wrists behind his back with heavy tactical zip-ties. Rocco glared at Enzo, spit blood onto the Persian rug, and offered a bitter, crooked smile.
"You think you're smart, Enzo?" Rocco spat. "You think stopping one hit makes you king?"
Enzo walked over to the bar, poured two fingers of amber scotch into a crystal glass, and took a slow sip. He didn't look angry; he looked dangerously amused.
"Who paid you, Rocco?" Enzo asked softly. "Was it the Falcone syndicate? Or was it my half-brother, Gianni?"
Rocco laughed—a dry, raspy sound that made skin crawl. "Ask the maid. She seems to know everything about my past."
May you like
Enzo slowly turned his gaze toward me. He pointed a leather-gloved finger at the chair across from Rocco.
"Sit, Amelia," Enzo commanded gently. "Tell me what happened eight years ago in Newark."
