Chapter 9 - The Monster in the Basement
The remaining Romano forces retreated when they realized half their strike team had been slaughtered by a ghost in the shadows,
fleeing the estate in their bullet-riddled vehicles,
leaving behind the broken bodies of their fallen comrades.
The Fairhaven mansion was a disaster zone,
walls chewed up by gunfire,
priceless artifacts shattered on the floors,
and the coppery stench of violence clinging to the cold air.
We managed to drag one surviving mercenary down into the soundproof basement,
a massive,
underground concrete bunker where our father usually handled his darkest business.
The man was strapped tightly to a heavy wooden chair,
his face swollen and bleeding,
his tactical gear stripped away,
leaving him vulnerable under the blinding glare of a single,
swinging interrogator’s light.
Asher paced the concrete floor like a caged predator,
his knuckles raw and bleeding from punching the man repeatedly,
frustration rolling off him in dark,
dangerous waves.
“I will ask you one last time,”
Asher snarled,
leaning in close to the mercenary’s bruised face,
his voice trembling with homicidal rage,
“Who gave the order to attack the estate while Julian was out of the country?”
The mercenary spat a mouthful of bloody saliva onto Asher’s expensive leather shoes,
a defiant,
ugly grin spreading across his broken lips.
“Go to hell,
Cavanaugh,”
the man choked out,
laughing a wet,
sickening laugh,
“Your father is losing his grip on the city,
and soon,
your entire family will be buried under this house.”
Asher roared in fury,
drawing his silver pistol and pressing the hot barrel directly against the man’s kneecap,
preparing to shatter the bone into a thousand pieces.
“Wait,”
a calm,
chilling voice echoed from the dark corner of the room,
stopping Asher before he could pull the trigger.
Eleanor stepped into the harsh circle of light,
having changed into a set of clean,
black clothes,
her dark hair tied back severely,
holding a small,
silver metal case in her hands.
She walked over to the chair,
completely ignoring Asher’s menacing presence,
and set the metal case on a nearby rolling tray,
popping the latches with a crisp click.
“Physical torture is messy,
loud,
and often produces unreliable intelligence,”
Eleanor lectured,
her tone sounding exactly like a university professor explaining a boring academic theory.
She opened the case,
revealing rows of delicate,
terrifying medical instruments,
glass vials of clear liquids,
and a collection of incredibly long,
thin silver needles.
The mercenary’s defiant grin instantly vanished,
his eyes widening in genuine panic as he looked at the surgical tools gleaming under the bright light,
his breathing accelerating rapidly.
“What the hell is this?”
the man stammered,
straining against his heavy leather restraints,
the heavy wooden chair creaking in protest.
“There is a specific nerve cluster at the base of your spine,”
Eleanor explained softly,
picking up a long needle with elegant,
gloved fingers,
“If I insert this needle exactly three millimeters into that cluster,
your brain will register the sensation of your skin being burned alive,
but your body will suffer no physical damage.”
I stepped back,
my stomach churning violently,
realizing that she wasn’t just a fighter,
she was an expert in the horrifying art of psychological and biological warfare.
Asher watched her in silent fascination,
lowering his gun,
allowing the housekeeper to take full control of the interrogation.
Eleanor stepped behind the bound man,
her fingers tracing the vertebrae on the back of his neck with terrifying gentleness,
finding the exact,
precise location she needed.
“You have about ten seconds before I bypass your pain receptors,”
Eleanor whispered into his ear,
her voice cold enough to freeze hell,
“So I suggest you start talking,
unless you want to spend the rest of your life screaming in a psychiatric ward.”
The man broke,
his false bravado shattering into a million pieces,
tears of absolute terror streaming down his battered face.
“It was Donatello,”
he sobbed,
his voice cracking,
thrashing in the chair to get away from the needle hovering near his spine,
“Donatello Romano ordered the hit,
he said Julian’s security chief sold out the alarm codes for three million dollars.”
Eleanor paused,
her eyes narrowing slightly,
and carefully placed the needle back into the silver case,
closing the lid with a definitive snap.
“Thank you,”
she said politely,
turning to face Asher,
who was staring at her as if she were a mythological monster,
May you like
“Now we know there is a traitor in your father’s inner circle,
and we must act before they strike again.”
