Chapter 7 - The Interrogation
The wine cellar beneath the Cole estate was three levels deep, carved into the coral rock foundations of the island. It was soundproof, cold, and smelled of aged oak and damp earth.
Tied to a heavy wooden chair under the glare of a single overhead bulb was Elena Rodriguez.
Elena had been the head housekeeper for six years. She had served my father. She had prepared meals for Claire when Claire was bedridden with complications during pregnancy. She had cried at Claire’s funeral.
Now, she sat shivering in her black uniform, her face bruised, blood dripping from her split lip where Luca had persuaded her to stop lying.
I sat on a wooden crate across from her, rolling an unlit cigar between my fingers. Behind me, Luca leaned against the stone wall, his arms crossed, watching Elena with dead eyes.
“Six years, Elena,” I said quietly.
Elena flinched, refusing to look at me. “Daniel… Mr. Cole… I swear on the Virgin, I didn't know it was poison! They told me it was a sedative! They told me it would only make the boy sick enough to be taken to Baptist Hospital!”
“Who is *they*?” I asked.
“The woman!” Elena sobbed, her shoulders heaving. “Margaret!”
Luca didn't move, but I heard his breath catch.
I didn't flinch. I had suspected it the moment I saw the seal. The medication had come from the exclusive boutique pharmacy in Coral Gables that only the old-money families used. A pharmacy where Margaret Cole was a majority shareholder.
“Explain,” I said, my tone as flat as a gravestone.
“Your mother called me two nights ago,” Elena wept, tears washing tracks through the blood on her chin. “After the gala… after Vanessa was taken. Margaret was beside herself. She said you had disgraced the family name, that you were going to marry the nanny and give the entire syndicate away to white trash. She said if Noah fell ill, you would be forced to bring him to her doctors. She said it would prove Grace was neglectful and unfit to care for him! She swore it would only cause a fever!”
I looked down at the amber vial resting on the table beside me.
“It wasn't a sedative, Elena,” I said softly. “It was cyanide.”
Elena’s eyes went round with absolute, horrifying realization. “No… no, Mother of God, no! Margaret wouldn't kill her own grandson! She loves Noah!”
“Margaret didn't buy the vial herself,” I said coldly. “She tasked one of her old retainers—someone who still owes allegiance to the Moretti faction. Victor Moretti’s men swapped the sedative for poison. Margaret thought she was orchestrating a family drama to banish Grace. Moretti was orchestrating the murder of my son.”
Elena let out a wail of genuine, soul-crushing anguish. She realized she hadn't been an accomplice to high-society scheming; she had been the tool used to attempt the murder of an innocent three-year-old child.
“Kill me,” Elena cried, throwing her head back against the wood. “Kill me, Daniel! I deserve hell! Just don't let them hurt the baby!”
I stood up slowly, dusting off my trousers.
“Death is an escape, Elena,” I told her. “You will sign a full confession naming my mother and Moretti’s remaining lieutenants. When this is over, Luca will put you on a cargo freighter to South America. If you ever set foot on North American soil again, I will feed you to the alligators in the Glades piece by piece.”
I turned toward the iron stairs.
“Boss,” Luca called out. “What about Margaret? She’s at the penthouse in Bal Harbour. She’s surrounded by twelve private security guards from the old guard.”
I stopped at the bottom of the stairs, looking up into the darkness.
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“The old guard served my father,” I said. “And my father taught me one rule above all else: a leader who cannot protect his own child has no right to rule. Call the strike team. Tonight, the matriarch abdicates.”
***
