Chapter 4 - The Cellar of Whispers
The sub-basement beneath The Aurelian was not on any architectural blueprint filed with the city of Chicago. Built during the Prohibition era as a reinforced vault for contraband liquor, the room had two-foot-thick stone walls, an industrial steel door, and zero cellular reception.
Richard Whitcomb sat strapped to a heavy wooden chair under the harsh, unshielded glare of a single overhead tungsten bulb. His tie was torn, his bespoke suit jacket was stripped and laid across a steel table, and a thin line of sweat ran down his temples into his collar.
Standing in the corner with her arms folded across her chest was Nora Hayes. Enzo had ordered her brought along, refusing to leave the one person who had dismantled the plot out of his sight.
The heavy steel door groaned open.
Enzo walked into the vault. He did not pull out a weapon. He did not shout. He pulled a folding metal chair across the concrete floor, the legs screeching against the stone, and sat down three feet in front of the bound manager.
"Richard," Enzo began, his tone almost conversational. "You have managed The Aurelian for six years. I bought you your home in Lake Forest. I paid for your son’s tuition at Princeton. When your gambling debts in Macau nearly cost you your fingers four years ago, I cleared the ledger with the triad bosses."
Whitcomb’s lower lip trembled violently. "Enzo... Mr. Castellani, please! You have to listen to me! I didn't know the girl was going to sit in that chair! I swear to God on my mother's grave, I was told the glass was for you!"
Nora gasped softly from the corner.
Enzo didn't flinch. "Who gave you the compound, Richard?"
"I don't have a name!" Whitcomb stammered, tears streaming through the grease on his face. "A courier dropped a sealed insulated vial in my private locker at the health club on Tuesday. The instructions came via encrypted satellite message. They said... they said if you were removed quietly during a private family event, the succession would pass cleanly without a street war."
"Cleanly," Enzo repeated, tasting the word like bile. "And who did they tell you would take the seat?"
Whitcomb hesitated, his eyes darting frantically toward the locked iron door.
"Tell him," Nora said from the shadows, her voice cutting through the damp room. "You were willing to let a child die to save your skin. The least you can do is give up the monster who handed you the glass."
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Whitcomb swallowed hard, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper.
"The message said the board had already approved the restructuring," Whitcomb wept. "They said Marcus Bell had already drafted the power-of-attorney documents."
