Chapter 5 - The Wine Cellar Confession
The subterranean wine cellar of the Long Island estate was vast, cold, and smelled of decades-old oak barrels and damp stone. Rows of rare vintage bottles lined the brick walls, illuminated only by a single overhead iron chandelier.
Tied securely to a sturdy wooden chair in the center of the tasting room was Dr. Simon Finch.
His glasses were crooked, his expensive silk tie was loosened, and his face was pale with a sickly, greenish hue as he stared up at Dominic Hale, who stood leaning against a wine rack with his arms crossed over his chest.
Claire stood a few paces back, holding the poisoned formula can, while Marcus Vance stood guard near the heavy iron door.
“Dominic—please! This is insane!” Dr. Finch stammered, his voice cracking with panic. “What is the meaning of this? Why have your men dragged me out of my bed in the middle of the night?”
Dominic didn't answer immediately. He walked slowly around the chair, his heavy boots clicking rhythmically against the stone floor. He stopped behind Finch, leaning down so his mouth was near the doctor’s ear.
“Simon,” Dominic whispered softly. “Do you remember when my wife died on that operating table?”
Finch swallowed hard, trembling. “O-of course I do, Dominic. I tried everything I could to save her—”
“You told me her heart simply gave out,” Dominic interrupted, his voice dropping into an icy register. “You told me the complications were entirely natural. Unavoidable.”
“They were natural!” Finch protested frantically.
Clang!
Dominic slammed his fist against the wooden wine rack, sending a bottle crashing to the floor in a spray of shattered glass and red wine. Finch shrieked in terror.
“Don't lie to me in my own house!” Dominic roared, grabbing Finch by the collar of his shirt and hauling him forward. “My wife didn't die of natural complications, did she? You were prescribing her experimental blood-thinning regulators during her third trimester—the exact ones that caused her hemorrhaging!”
Finch’s eyes dilated with absolute terror. He realized the game was up.
“I—I had no choice!” Finch sobbed, tears spilling down his cheeks. “They threatened me! My debts—the gambling losses in Atlantic City—they bought my ledger, Dominic!”
“Who?” Dominic snarled, shaking the doctor violently. “Who bought you?!”
“The Moretti family!” Finch screamed, squeezing his eyes shut. “Vincent Moretti! He wanted control of your shipping routes. He knew he couldn't get to you through your guards, so he decided to wipe out your bloodline! First your wife... and then the boy!”
Claire stepped forward out of the shadows, her voice cutting through the damp air like a knife.
“And last night?” Claire asked coldly, holding up the poisoned formula can. “Was that Moretti’s men, or were you the one sneaking into the nursery to refresh the poison?”
Finch looked at Claire, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. He hung his head in total defeat. “It was me. Moretti’s cleaner got sloppy, and I had to swap the cans myself before the nanny noticed. I just wanted the nightmare to end...”
Dominic released his grip, letting Finch collapse back against the chair. The mafia boss stood up, wiping his hands with a linen handkerchief as if touching the doctor had contaminated him.
He looked over at Marcus. “Lock him in the lower holding cell. Give him water and bread. We’ll deal with him after we settle accounts with Vincent Moretti.”
“Boss,” Marcus said cautiously, stepping forward. “Moretti has fortified his compound in Brooklyn. If we hit him now without preparation, it’s a suicide run.”
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Dominic turned, his grey eyes flashing with a terrifying, calculated brilliance. He looked at Claire, then back at Marcus.
“We aren't going to storm his compound,” Dominic said, a dark, lethal smile spreading across his face. “We’re going to invite him to ours.”
