Chapter 3 - The Cold Floor
The sub-level study smelled of aged paper, leather oil, and damp concrete. Unlike the glass-and-marble luxury sixty floors above, this room belonged to an older century, tucked deep into the fortified foundations of the building where no satellite could track and no wire could reach.
Emma sat on a heavy oak chair in the center of the Persian rug. Her apron was gone, stripped away by the guards along with her shoes and the silver chain that had hung around her neck. Her bare feet hovered inches above the cold stone floor.
Julian sat across from her behind a massive desk cluttered with blueprints and surveillance stills. He had discarded his suit jacket; his crisp black shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms mapped with fine scars and heavy black ink. A glass of salted water sat untouched at his elbow—the antidote his private physician had forced him to drink minutes earlier.
""You have five minutes before the numbness leaves your throat completely,"" Julian said, his eyes fixed on the silver locket resting between his knuckles. ""Use them wisely.""
Emma tried to speak, but her throat felt coated in dry sand. The belladonna residue had touched her own fingers during plating, and the slight absorption made her tongue heavy. ""You... executed him,"" she rasped, each syllable tearing at her vocal cords. ""In Palermo. In the harbor warehouse.""
Julian paused. The locket clicked shut between his fingers. ""Your father was Salvatore Moretti. He ran the northern docks.""
""He was an accountant,"" Emma countered, her voice gaining raw, desperate strength. ""He kept the ledgers. He never carried a gun. And you threw him into the bay with chains around his ankles!""
Julian stared at her through the gloom, entirely unreadable. He stood up, walked around the desk, and stopped directly in front of her. Slowly, he opened the locket. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of a young woman with the exact same wide, melancholy hazel eyes and stubborn jawline as Emma. Beside her stood a young Julian, barely eighteen, his face unmarked by violence.
""Salvatore didn't drown, Emma,"" Julian said softly.
She flinched as he reached out, using his thumb to wipe away a bead of cold sweat running down her cheek. His touch was unexpectedly gentle, completely at odds with the terrifying reputation of the man who ran New York's underworld.
""Salvatore is alive,"" Julian said. ""And he is the one who sold your location to Victoria yesterday morning.""
A heavy silence crashed into the room. Emma's heart seized. ""You're lying.""
""Check the floorboards in your apartment on 4th Street,"" Julian murmured. ""The ones beneath the kitchen sink. The money was wired from a Swiss account under his initials three hours ago. But that's not why Victoria wants you dead.""
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He leaned down, placing both hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her within his space.
""She wants you dead because you are the only living person who carries the master key to the vault beneath the Vatican bank. And right now, there is a strike team currently descending the elevator shaft to finish what that plate couldn't.""
