Chapter 5 - THE INTERROGATION OF THE PANTHEON
-5
The sub-basement beneath the Marchetti estate was known among the criminal underworld as the Pantheon—a windowless, soundproofed labyrinth of concrete and steel where secrets were extracted and empires were quietly buried.
Thomas, the junior aide from the state treasurer's office, was currently tied securely to a heavy steel chair in the center of Vault B. His expensive silk suit was soaked in cold sweat, his face bruised from the brief struggle in the hallway, and his eyes darted frantically around the bare concrete walls as if expecting monsters to crawl out of the shadows.
The heavy steel door swung open with a hollow, echoing clang.
Enzo walked in, followed closely by Viktor, his second-in-command and chief enforcer—a hulking mountain of a man named Marcus (unrelated to the corporate traitor, sharing only a name and a terrifying loyalty). Enzo didn't sit down. He stood directly under the harsh fluorescent overhead bulb, slowly rolling up his sleeves to reveal the sprawling dragon tattoos coiling up his forearms.
“Mr. Marchetti—please!” Thomas blubbered, straining against the heavy nylon bindings. “This is a mistake! I’m an official of the state! The treasurer’s office will tear this place apart—they’ll send the FBI—!”
“The FBI gets their funding approved by the congressional appropriations committee,” Enzo interrupted smoothly, pulling a heavy silver Zippo lighter from his pocket and flipping it open. The tiny flame snapped to life, casting flickering orange shadows across his carved features. “An appropriations committee where three key members happen to owe my family favors dating back to the 1980s. Save the federal threats for someone who watches network television, Thomas.”
Enzo closed the lighter with a sharp snap.
“Let’s talk about Viktor Vance,” Enzo said, stepping closer until he was standing inches from the terrified bureaucrat. “Let’s talk about how a mid-level pencil pusher in the treasurer's office suddenly gets involved in poisoning champagne at my engagement party.”
“I... I don't know any Viktor Vance!” Thomas lied, his voice pitching up into a hysterical squeak. “It was a freelance job! Some guy in a bar paid me ten grand to drop a capsule—!”
Enzo didn't raise his voice. He didn't strike him. He simply nodded slightly to Marcus.
Marcus stepped forward, pulled a pair of heavy industrial pliers from his tactical vest, and grabbed Thomas’s left hand, spreading the fingers flat against the arm of the steel chair.
“Wait! Wait! I’ll talk! I’ll talk!” Thomas shrieked, tears streaming freely down his cheeks as Marcus’s metal tool hovered ominously over his thumbnail.
“You already had your turn to talk, Thomas,” Enzo said coldly. “Now you’re just confirming coordinates.”
“It was Viktor!” Thomas sobbed, breaking completely under the pressure. “Viktor Vance! He’s been funneling state infrastructure kickbacks through my department for two years! He threatened to expose my gambling debts and frame me for embezzlement if I didn't plant the neurotoxin in Camilla’s glass! He said if the bride died at your wedding, the resulting chaos would force the port authority to put the north side docks up for emergency receivership, and his shell company would buy them for pennies!”
Enzo listened in absolute silence, absorbing every detail. The plot wasn't just an assassination attempt; it was a hostile economic takeover disguised as a tragedy.
“Where is Viktor right now?” Enzo asked.
“His warehouse! On 4th and Halsted! Next to the abandoned grain elevator!” Thomas gasped, hyperventilating. “He’s meeting with his financial backers tonight at midnight to celebrate the buyout! Please, Mr. Marchetti, I told you everything! Let me go!”
Enzo looked down at the weeping wreck of a man tied to the chair. He felt no anger toward Thomas—men like him were just wind-up toys, easily manipulated by real predators.
“Marcus,” Enzo said softly.
“Boss?”
“Clean him up, give him a bus ticket to Milwaukee, and make sure he never sets foot in Illinois again.” Enzo turned toward the heavy steel door. “If he comes back, feed him to the eels.”
“Understood, Boss,” Marcus grunted.
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Enzo walked out of Vault B, his mind racing. The clock on the corridor wall read 10:45 PM. He had seventy-five minutes before Viktor’s midnight meeting at the Halsted warehouse.
And as he took the private elevator back up toward the residential quarters, he knew exactly who was coming with him.
