Chapter 3 - The Interrogation Room
They didn't take me to a basement with chains and concrete walls, but the second-floor study where Dante Moretti interrogated me felt just as inescapable.
The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling mahogany bookshelves, and a fire crackled quietly in a stone hearth. Dante sat behind a massive oak desk, pouring two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal tumbler. He didn't offer me a drink. He just watched me as I sat stiffly in the leather armchair opposite him, my torn shoe strap dangling uselessly against the rug.
"Maya Lin," Dante repeated, reading from a tablet that lay beside his glass. "Twenty-four years old. Graphic designer for a boutique marketing firm in Manhattan. Fired three weeks ago after corporate restructuring. Rent overdue by two months. Family..." He paused, his eyes flicking up to mine. "Orphaned at ten. No local relatives."
"So you already know I'm nobody," I said, a sudden spark of defensive anger cutting through my terror. "I'm not a spy, I'm not a rival syndicate's plant, and I certainly didn't kidnap your daughter. I found a freezing six-year-old child hiding behind cardboard boxes, and instead of walking away like any sensible person would do, I stayed with her. If you want to shoot me for trespassing, get it over with, but don't sit there acting like I plotted this."
Silence stretched across the study.
Dante didn't flinch at my outburst. Instead, a slow, dangerous contemplation settled into his dark eyes. He took a sip of his whiskey, swirling the liquid against the crystal.
"If you were a professional plant, Ms. Lin, your pulse would be racing, but your pupils wouldn't be dilated with genuine exhaustion," Dante said evenly. "You're shivering. Not from the cold anymore, but from shock."
"Of course I'm in shock!" I snapped, my hands balling into fists in my lap. "I spent the night huddled on a concrete floor with a sick child while waiting to see if rats or hypothermia would finish us first, only to be swarmed by tactical squads like a terrorist!"
Before Dante could respond, a soft knock rattled the study door, and Dr. Evans—an older man with silver hair and a worn medical bag—stepped inside.
Dante stood up immediately, abandoning his desk. "How is she, Doctor?"
"She has a mild case of bronchial inflammation and exhaustion, Mr. Moretti," Dr. Evans reported, wiping his glasses with a handkerchief. "Her temperature is stabilizing thanks to the warm fluids and the fact that she was wrapped in thick thermal fabric before we arrived." The doctor glanced briefly at me, a subtle nod of approval in his eyes. "Whoever kept her warm through the night saved her from pneumonia."
Dante let out a slow breath—a sound that revealed just how close he had been to snapping under the strain. "Thank you, Doctor. Have Mrs. Gable administer the antibiotics at dawn."
As the doctor left, Dante turned back to me. The harshness in his posture had softened, though the guarded intelligence in his eyes remained.
"You saved her life," Dante said, his voice completely devoid of its earlier interrogation chill.
"I kept her warm," I corrected quietly. "Anyone would have done the same."
"No," Dante replied, walking over to the fireplace and staring into the flames. "Most people in your position would have run the other way the moment they saw an abandoned warehouse. Most people wouldn't have given their only jacket to a stranger."
He turned back around, resting his arm against the stone mantelpiece. "My enemies have been closing in for months. Two nights ago, there was a security breach at our Vermont estate. Lily was taken from her nursery while my detail was compromised. We've been tearing the tri-state area apart looking for her."
"You think whoever took her left her in that warehouse?" I asked, horror dawning on me.
"I know they did," Dante said darkly. "They realized the federal manhunt was too hot, and they panicked, dumping her where they thought she'd freeze before morning. But they didn't count on a displaced designer missing her bus."
He walked back to the desk, pulled out a checkbook, and quickly scribbled something across a slip of paper before tearing it out and sliding it across the wood toward me.
I looked down. The numbers made my breath hitch. Fifty thousand dollars.
"Consider this a retainer," Dante said smoothly. "And compensation for your ruined shoes and jacket."
May you like
I stared at the check, then pushed it back across the desk, shaking my head. "I don't want your blood money, Mr. Moretti."
Dante’s eyebrows rose in genuine surprise. "It's not blood money. It's hazard pay. Because whether you realize it or not, Ms. Lin, you are no longer safe walking out those front gates."
