Chapter 6 - The Interrogation of Room Twelve
Thirty minutes later, the grand dining room had been cleared.
Vincent Rossi sat tied to a heavy oak chair in the center of the room, his jacket removed, his silk tie loosened. A dark bruise was beginning to form along his jawline where Leo’s fist had introduced itself to his teeth.
Vivien was locked in her third-floor suite with two armed guards outside her door.
I stood across from Vincent, holding the glass of poisoned water in my hand.
"Let’s talk about digitalis, Vincent," I said calmly, swirling the clear liquid. "It’s a subtle poison. Mimics natural heart failure. If Sophia had died in room twelve last night, Dr. Sterling would have signed off on natural causes—acute pneumonia exacerbated by exhaustion. No autopsy. No police investigation. Just a dead maid and a closed case."
Vincent spat a drop of blood onto the parquet floor. "You can't prove I gave that to Hargrove. She took the package, sure. But she could have put anything in it."
"She already told Leo the forty grand was wired from your personal account in Zurich," I said. "And the server logs show your personal encryption key was used to download the freight manifests. You were selling our distribution routes to the federal prosecutor's office in exchange for immunity on your own money-laundering charges in New York."
Vincent laughed—a harsh, ragged sound. "And what do you think the feds are going to do when they get those manifests, Alessandro? Legitimate logistics company? You and I both know Apex Maritime is still moving unregistered contraband through those rail yards. I just accelerated the inevitable."
"Maybe," I said. "Or maybe I clean house before they arrive."
Before Vincent could answer, the heavy doors of the dining room creaked open.
I looked up.
Sophia stood in the doorway.
She was wearing her yellow cardigan—the one with the button sewn on crooked—and gray leggings. Her face was still pale, dark circles shadowing her eyes, but the feverish flush was gone. She was leaning slightly against the doorframe for support, and behind her skirt, clutching the fabric with both hands, was three-year-old Emma.
I lowered the gun slightly. "Sophia. You shouldn't be out of bed."
"I heard shouting," Sophia said, her voice steady, though her hands were trembling. She looked past me at Vincent tied to the chair, then down at the glass of water in my hand, and finally at Leo standing by the door with a security tablet.
"Is this about last night?" she asked.
"Go back to your room, Sophia," I said, my voice softening involuntarily. "This is business."
"No," she said, stepping fully into the room, her chin lifting with that stubborn, quiet dignity that kept catching me off guard. "Not anymore. That glass of water... that was from my table, wasn't it?"
"Yes," I said.
Sophia looked at Vincent. She didn't scream, and she didn't cry. She just looked at him with the cold, absolute clarity of a mother who realized someone had tried to kill her to cover up a corporate crime.
"She gave me water yesterday afternoon," Sophia said quietly, pointing a finger at the door. "Miss Vivien. She came down to the service wing while I was sleeping. She said she wanted to check on Emma. She was holding a tray with a fresh glass of water."
Vincent’s eyes flicked toward Sophia, a flash of pure contempt crossing his features. "The maid is delirious. She doesn't know what she's talking about."
"I was half-asleep," Sophia admitted, taking another step forward. "I thought it was a dream. But I remember her smelling like white flowers. Orange blossom and cold metal. And she touched Emma’s hair."
The room went dead silent.
I looked at Vincent. The puzzle pieces clicked into place with absolute, terrifying precision.
Vivien had brought the poison down to room twelve while Sophia was incapacitated, intending to eliminate the only witness who might have seen her tampering with the admin terminal or dropping off the package. When Emma had wandered into the pressing room earlier that day to iron my shirt, it hadn't been an accident—she had been trying to finish her mother's work because she was terrified of losing the roof over her head.
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A three-year-old child had been caught in the crossfire of a corporate assassination attempt.
The coldness behind my ribs turned to fire.
