Chapter 3 - The Interrogation
The temperature in the bedroom seemed to drop ten degrees. Camila’s expression didn't crumble immediately; instead, it froze into a rigid, artificial mask of confusion.
“What are you talking about?” she asked, offering a faint, patronizing smile. “What upholstery?”
D’Angelo reached into his jacket pocket. He pulled out the cheap plastic burner phone and tossed it onto the glass top of her vanity table. It landed with a sharp clack, sliding across the polished surface until it tapped against her bottle of expensive French perfume.
Camila stared at the phone. For the first time, a break appeared in her flawless facade. Her chest heaved once, a sharp, shallow breath, and her nostrils flared.
“Where did you get that?” she whispered.
“You left it in my study,” D’Angelo said, taking two steps forward. “In the floor vent. A bit cliché, don't you think? You should have used the chimney. Or better yet, kept it on your person.”
Camila’s eyes darted toward the bedside table, where a silver drawer handle gleamed in the lamp light. D’Angelo caught the movement instantly. Before she could shift her weight, he closed the distance between them, his hand shooting out to grab her chin in a vice-like grip.
He lifted her from the chair, forcing her to stand on her tiptoes. Her hands flew up to grab his wrist, her manicured nails digging into his skin, but he didn't feel it.
“Don’t,” D’Angelo warned, his voice low, vibrating with a terrible, contained violence. “There’s a knife in my pocket and a gun at my back. If you move toward that drawer, I will end this conversation right now.”
“D’Angelo… please,” she choked out, her posture collapsing as fear finally broke through her arrogance. “You’re hurting me.”
“You traded my life for money,” he said, his face inches from hers. He could smell her expensive rosewater perfume, the same scent that had lingered on his pillows for six months. It smelled sickening now. “Who gave you the contract? Was it Marco Calibrazi?”
Camila clawed at his wrist, her breathing coming in frantic gasps. “It’s… it’s not what you think—”
“Do not lie to me!” he roared, the force of his voice rattling the glass perfume bottles on the vanity. “I read the messages, Camila! ‘Make it clean. I don’t want blood on the new upholstery.’ You wrote that! You sat in this room, on my dime, eating my food, wearing my silk, and you bargained over the cost of my execution!”
He flung her backward. She stumbled, crashing onto the plush mattress of the king-sized bed. She scrambled to her knees, pulling her robe tightly around her chest, her dark hair falling in chaotic strands over her face.
“They were going to kill me!” she sobbed, the tears streaming down her cheeks now, ruining her carefully applied makeup. “If I didn’t help them, they were going to kill me, D’Angelo!”
“Who?”
“Marco!” she cried out. “He found out about the bank accounts! He knew you were giving me access to the offshore funds in the Caymans! He contacted me three months ago. He said if I didn’t give them the security codes and the floor plans to this house, he’d release the documents showing I was laundering money through my father’s charity!”
D’Angelo stood over her, his eyes cold and hollow. “Your father’s charity was already laundering money. That’s why I picked you, Camila. I thought you were smart enough to keep your mouth shut and enjoy the protection I provided. I gave you everything.”
“You gave me a cage!” she shrieked, her voice turning sharp and hysterical. “You gave me a gold-plated cage surrounded by armed guards and blood money! I’m twenty-six years old, D’Angelo! I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life waiting for a rival gang to put a bullet through my window or waiting for the FBI to smash down the door!”
“So you decided to sell the lock to the cage,” D’Angelo said flatly. “How much did Marco offer you?”
Camila swallowed hard, wiping her nose with the sleeve of her robe. “Ten million. Transferred to a Swiss account upon confirmation of your death. He promised me safe passage to Milan.”
“Ten million,” D’Angelo repeated softly. He chuckled, a dark, humorless sound that sent a shiver through the room. “He lied to you, Camila. Marco Calibrazi doesn't leave loose ends. The moment his men finished clearing out my study tonight, they would have walked into this bedroom and put a bullet in your head, too. You were never going to Milan.”
Camila’s face went entirely drain of color. “No… no, he gave me his word—”
“He’s a mob boss!” D’Angelo barked. “His word is worth as much as the paper that burner phone was made of!”
He glanced at his watch. 1:18 a.m.
Forty-two minutes until the assault team arrived.
“Where are they entering?” D’Angelo demanded.
“The Southgate,” she stammered, completely broken now. “I… I told the guard at Gate 3 that you ordered the camera system serviced tonight. He’s going to turn off the perimeter sensors at 1:45. They’re coming in through the service orchard.”
“How many?”
“Six,” she whispered. “Six men. Heavy weapons. They have suppressed submachine guns. They were told to clear the entire main house.”
“Including the staff?”
Camila looked away, unable to meet his eyes. “They said… they said there wouldn't be any witnesses.”
D’Angelo felt a cold rage settle into his gut. Nancy was in the safe room, but if he hadn't come home early, the rest of the night shift—the cooks, the groundskeepers, the young girls sweeping the halls—would have been slaughtered in their beds just to ensure a clean hit.
He walked over to the bed, reached down, and took her primary phone from her trembling fingers. He checked the screen. It was unlocked.
“You’re going to send a message,” D’Angelo said, handing the phone back to her.
“What… what message?”
“Tell them the plan is moving forward. Tell them I’m home, I’m asleep in the master suite, and the perimeter guard has already disabled Gate 3 early.”
May you like
Camila stared at him in horror. “If I do that, they’ll come right now!”
“Precisely,” D’Angelo said, pulling the Sig Sauer from his belt and checking the suppressor attached to the barrel. “I don't like waiting for people to kill me. I prefer to host the party on my own terms.”
