Chapter 7 - The Interrogation of a Traitor
By 6:00 AM, the ASTORIA warehouse was buzzing with the lethal, disciplined energy of fifty heavily armed Moretti loyalists.
Marcus Bell stood at the center of the concrete floor, cleaning the bolt of his tactical rifle while his lieutenants checked their body armor.
The heavy industrial cargo door rolled up with a grinding screech, and two massive street enforcers dragged a bleeding, bound figure into the room.
It was Carlo Vane, the tactical commander of the Calabrese hit squad who had overseen the massacre of Julian’s guards at the Bedford estate.
They threw Carlo onto a steel folding chair in the middle of the room, stripping away his tactical vest to reveal his bruised chest.
Julian walked out of the command office, his coat removed, the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up to reveal his thick forearms.
He did not carry a weapon; he simply pulled up a second steel chair and sat down directly opposite the trembling mercenary.
“Where is Damian?” Julian asked, his voice so quiet and even that it carried more terror than any shouted threat could ever achieve.
“Go to hell, Moretti,” Carlo spat, blood dripping from his split lip onto the pristine floor of the Astoria stronghold. “You are a dead man walking.”
Julian didn't blink, didn't raise his voice, and didn't show a single flicker of emotional irritation at the mercenary's defiance.
He simply gestured with two fingers toward Marcus, who stepped forward with a heavy, industrial wire-cutter gripped in his gloved hand.
“We do not have time for theatrical bravery, Carlo,” Julian said calmly, leaning forward until his face was inches from the bleeding hitman.
“Your men murdered three of my personal bodyguards in my own basement while my housekeeper was forced to hide in a silver closet.”
He took Carlo’s right hand, forcing the man's fingers flat against the cold steel surface of the table beside them with crushing force.
“You will tell me the exact defensive deployment at the Bedford estate, or Marcus will begin removing your fingers one joint at a time.”
Carlo looked at the cold, expressionless face of the syndicate boss, and his hardened mercenary resolve broke completely like brittle glass.
“There are forty Calabrese shooters stationed at the mansion!” Carlo gasped, his entire body shaking with violent, uncontrollable terror.
“They have heavy automatic weapons barricaded at the main gate, snipers on the roof terrace, and a quick-reaction force in the guest house!”
Julian nodded slowly, absorbing the tactical layout while his mind calculated the exact vectors required for a breach.
“And what is Damian’s extraction plan when he realizes he cannot access my offshore liquidity?” Julian asked softly.
“He has a charter flight waiting at the Teterboro private airfield scheduled for midnight tonight!” Carlo confessed, tears of pain leaking from his eyes.
“He is planning to take your wife and whatever physical gold bullion remains in the Bedford basement vault before flying to Buenos Aires!”
Julian stood up from his chair, his tall frame casting a long, terrifying shadow across the bleeding soldier cowering before him.
“He thinks he can buy his life with my gold,” Julian murmured to himself, turning his back on the captive to face his assembled army.
“Lock him in the secure holding cell downstairs,” Julian ordered his men without looking back. “If he makes a sound, break his jaw.”
May you like
He looked at Marcus, who was already loading fresh armor-piercing magazines into his tactical vest with professional efficiency.
“Call the waterfront crews,” Julian commanded, his eyes burning with cold, unshakeable purpose. “We are going to war.”
