Chapter 7 - THE INTERROGATION
-7
The silence in the private study was so absolute that the distant ticking of a grandfather clock in the hallway sounded like a judge’s gavel striking wood. Dr. Harrison Blake stood frozen near the doorway, his chest heaving beneath his tailored gray suit jacket as he stared at the glass specimen jar on the mahogany desk. The color had completely vanished from his face, leaving him looking like a cornered rat trapped in a steel cage.
“I… I don't know what you think you’ve found, Vincent,” Dr. Blake forced a weak, pathetic chuckle, trying desperately to salvage his aristocratic composure. He took a hesitant step backward toward the double doors. “This is absurd. Some disgruntled domestic staff must have planted chemical reagents to sabotage my professional reputation. You can't possibly believe—"
“Shut your mouth, Harrison,” Vincent interrupted, his voice dropping into a low, terrifying growl that rattled the windowpanes.
Vincent didn't shout. He didn't lose his temper. He moved with the terrifying, calculated precision of an apex predator closing in on wounded prey. He closed the distance between them in two long strides, grabbing Dr. Blake by the lapels of his designer suit and slamming him hard against the heavy oak doors with a resounding thud.
The doctor let out a sharp gasp of air, dropping his medical briefcase to the floor as his glasses slid down his nose, dangling precariously from one ear.
“You poisoned my sons,” Vincent whispered, his face inches from the doctor’s terrified eyes. “You turned my home into a laboratory. You watched them waste away for eighteen months while you collected your consulting fees and fed me lies about grief and psychosomatic fatigue.”
“I—I was conducting authorized advanced neuro-pharmacological research… for their long-term benefit…!” Dr. Blake choked out, clawing frantically at Vincent’s hands in a desperate attempt to break his grip.
“Research?” I stepped out from the corner of the room, walking slowly toward them with the forensic audit files open in my hand. I stopped right in front of the terrified physician, looking down at him with utter contempt. “You weren't conducting research, Dr. Blake. You were field-testing an addictive, neuro-suppressive compound that failed clinical trials a decade ago. You were using Lucas and Leo as permanent drug-dependent test subjects to prove your failed theories, funded by the very man whose trust you manipulated.”
Dr. Blake’s eyes darted frantically between Vincent and me, realizing that his sophisticated web of lies had been completely unraveled down to the last thread.
“If you hand me over to the authorities, my legal team will tie this up in federal courts for years!” Dr. Blake sneered, his panic momentarily giving way to arrogant defiance as he clutched at his surviving shreds of professional pride. “You can't prove intent! You can't prove I administered anything without Mrs. Harper’s direct complicity—and she’ll go down with me for treason!”
“Mrs. Harper is currently sitting in federal protective custody with a full, signed confession detailing your blackmail, your threats against her daughter, and your direct oversight of the auxiliary injection unit,” I replied smoothly, holding up a digital recorder displaying a blinking green LED light. “And this little device recorded every single word you just uttered, including your admission of unauthorized neuro-pharmacological administration on minor children.”
The doctor’s jaw dropped. The last ounce of fight drained entirely from his body, his knees buckling slightly as Vincent released his grip, letting him slump against the heavy oak doors like a discarded sack of flour.
Vincent stepped back, straightening his cuffs, his chest heaving with controlled fury. He picked up his desk phone, depressing the intercom button.
“Marcus,” Vincent spoke into the receiver, addressing his head of corporate security. “Bring the transport team up to the private study. Dr. Blake is checking out permanently.”
“Right away, Mr. Moretti,” Marcus’s voice crackled through the speaker.
Dr. Blake scrambled frantically on the floor, grabbing at Vincent’s trouser cuffs in a pathetic, whimpering display of absolute cowardice. “Vincent! Please! We go back twenty years! Think of my career! Think of my family!”
“You didn't think of my family when you were pumping neurotoxins into my children’s lungs every night,” Vincent said coldly, shaking the doctor’s hands off his legs as if brushing away dirt.
Within two minutes, two towering private security guards entered the study, hoisting Dr. Blake to his feet by his arms. They dragged him toward the private elevator service exit that led directly to the underground parking garage, cutting off his hysterical screams as the heavy steel doors slid shut behind them.
The study fell into a profound, suffocating silence.
Vincent walked slowly back to his desk, sinking heavily into his leather executive chair. He stared down at the glass specimen jar of amber neurotoxin, his hands trembling slightly as the sheer adrenaline of the confrontation finally began to recede, leaving behind the hollow, burning realization of how close he had come to losing everything.
“They’re going to be okay, Mr. Moretti,” I said softly, walking over to stand beside his desk. “The medical team has already flushed the toxins from their systems. In a few days, the fatigue and cognitive fog will lift. They’ll be racing through these hallways again before you know it.”
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Vincent looked up at me, the billionaire investor, the ruthless titan, dropping his impenetrable armor to reveal a grateful father. He reached out, his hand covering mine where it rested on the edge of the desk.
“When the nanny agency called me twenty-four hours ago, I expected a babysitter,” Vincent whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “Instead, I hired the only person in the world who could save my sons.”
