Chapter 2 - The Interview Room
The fluorescent lights of the Twelfth Precinct buzzed with a low, sickening hum that vibrated straight through my skull. The smell was ancient—stale coffee, wet wool, and cheap floor disinfectant.
Calvin waited outside by the SUV under strict orders to watch both sides of the street and kill the engine. I walked through the precinct doors alone, shaking off the rain. The desk sergeant eyed my wet cashmere, took my identification, and immediately stood up straight. Power in New York didn't need a shouting match; men like Sergeant Miller recognized Roman Kinsley by reputation long before they verified my signature.
"Mr. Kinsley," Miller said, lowering his voice as he led me down the linoleum hallway toward the back holding cells. "We put her in Interview Two. She hasn't touched the water we gave her. Hasn't said a word to anyone since she dialed your private number."
"Has Wallace made a statement?" I asked, my voice flat, keeping my pace steady.
"He's at Bellevue getting fourteen stitches across his cheekbone and forehead," Miller replied, turning a heavy brass key in the door handle. "He claims he was minding his business having pie when she jumped him unprovoked. But the diner's waitress whispered that Wallace cornered her booth first."
Miller swung the heavy steel door open. "Ten minutes before your outside lawyer gets here to process bail."
The door clicked shut behind me.
Natalie sat at the metal table, illuminated by a single harsh overhead bulb. Her immaculate beige trench coat was crumpled, dark water spots staining the lapels. Her knuckles were bruised purple-blue, flecked with dried blood that wasn't hers. Yet her spine was ramrod straight, her chin lifted, and her dark hair pulled back into that relentless, precise ponytail she wore every morning at eight.
When our eyes met, she didn't weep or show relief. The slight tremor in her hands vanished the second she clasped them together on the steel surface.
"You're seven minutes later than your usual transit time from the penthouse," she said, her voice dry and rasping, but steady as stone.
A faint, grim smirk touched my mouth despite the tension twisting my gut. "Traffic on the FDR was backed up, Natalie. And you smashed a ceramic mug into a Moretti enforcer's jaw."
I pulled out the opposite metal chair and sat down. "Start talking. Why Mickey Wallace? And why did you bar Kinsley Holdings' legal council from stepping foot in here?"
Natalie leaned forward. She didn't drop her gaze, but her eyes darted toward the frosted glass window in the door, ensuring nobody was eavesdropping through the pane.
"Because at four-thirty this afternoon, your chief legal counsel, Arthur Vance, authorized a blind wire transfer of four point two million dollars into a shell corporation registered in the Cayman Islands," she said, speaking barely above a whisper.
My eyes narrowed. "Arthur has discretionary authorization up to five million for settlement payouts."
"The receiving account wasn't a settlement firm, Roman," she whispered fiercely, using my first name for the first time in three years. "It routes directly into an offshore account owned by Marco Moretti."
The room seemed to drop ten degrees. Marco Moretti had spent six years trying to push me out of the North River docks, running illegal freight and trying to undercut my container logistics.
"How did you find that?" I asked.
"Because I balance your shadow ledgers while you're negotiating shipping contracts," she said simply. "I noticed the discrepancy during my monthly audit. But when I stayed late at the office to pull the routing slips from Vance’s terminal, Mickey Wallace was already parked outside my apartment building in Brooklyn. He followed me to the twenty-four-hour diner on Tenth Avenue. He didn't come to collect a debt, Roman. He came with a burner phone and a message."
"What message?"
Natalie swallowed hard, the first crack in her armor surfacing in the faint tightening around her eyes.
"He sat across from me in that booth, dropped your personal itinerary for next Tuesday's meeting at the docks on the table, and told me that if I didn't erase the digital audit trail by midnight tonight, they wouldn't just kill you—they'd take your twelve-year-old niece on her walk to school tomorrow morning."
The air left my chest in a sharp, burning hiss. My sister's daughter, Maya. The one part of my family kept entirely detached from the syndicate, guarded under round-the-clock secrecy. Nobody outside my innermost circle even knew Maya existed.
"So you hit him," I said quietly.
"I didn't have a weapon, and if I walked out of that diner, his men on the street would have grabbed me before I could reach you," Natalie said, leaning closer until I could smell the faint scent of rain and coffee on her collar. "A violent public arrest meant lights, witnesses, police dispatch logs, and a holding cell where Wallace couldn't touch me until I got you in this room."
She paused, taking a ragged breath.
"The leak isn't just Vance, Roman. Vance doesn't know about your niece. Only one man in your entire empire coordinates both family security details and dock logistics."
My stomach dropped into a bottomless pit as the realization hit me like a sledgehammer.
"Donovan Pierce," I murmured.
Donovan had been my right hand for fifteen years. He carried my father's casket. He set up the private security firm guarding Maya's private school.
Before Natalie could reply, the door to the interview room swung wide open.
May you like
Sergeant Miller didn't look back into the room. Instead, standing directly behind him in the doorway—dressed in a tailored charcoal overcoat, shaking raindrops from an umbrella with an easy, chilling smile—was Donovan Pierce.
"Evening, boss," Donovan said, his voice smooth as silk. "Saw the car outside. Thought I'd save your outside counsel the trouble."
Related Stories
