Chapter 8 - The Interrogation Room
The federal holding facility interrogation room was windowless, smelling of cold steel, cheap disinfectant, and crushed dreams.
Carmen Robles sat at the center of a scarred metal table. Her designer Chanel suit was wrinkled, her silver hair slightly disheveled, and the haughty, untouchable arrogance that had defined her entire existence had been replaced by a wild, cornered desperation.
The heavy steel door swung open, and Alexander Vance walked in, followed closely by Marcus.
Alexander didn't sit down. He stood leaning against the concrete wall, his arms crossed over his chest, looking down at Carmen like a scientist observing a particularly repulsive specimen under a microscope.
Carmen bared her teeth, leaning forward over the metal table. "Vance! You arrogant, vindictive bastard! You have no legal right to detain me! I am a citizen—I demand to speak to my consul, my attorneys—"
"Your attorneys dropped you three hours ago when their retainer checks bounced," Alexander interrupted smoothly, his voice ice-cold. "And your consul isn't answering your calls because your Swiss accounts were seized under international money laundering statutes this morning."
Carmen slammed her palms against the table, her face twisting with rage. "You ruined us! You destroyed thirty years of our family's legacy over a little family disagreement! She was our daughter-in-law! We had a right to secure our family's assets!"
"A right?" Alexander repeated, his voice dropping an octave into a register that made even Marcus flinch. "You broke into a hotel suite at three in the morning. You assaulted a twenty-four-year-old girl with forty slaps across the face, while your son stood outside listening like a coward. You tried to extort her property at gunpoint—metaphorically and legally."
He stepped closer to the table, looming over her.
"You didn't secure an asset, Carmen. You signed a death warrant for everything you ever built."
Carmen’s chest heaved, her defiance finally cracking under the overwhelming weight of absolute defeat. Tears of pure frustration welled in her eyes. "What do you want, Alexander? Name your price. We'll leave Dallas. We'll leave Texas. Just... just let us keep our freedom."
"Freedom?" Alexander asked, letting out a cold, humorless chuckle. "Freedom is for people who respect the law. You’re going to spend the next ten to fifteen years in a federal penitentiary reflecting on what happens when you cross the wrong family."
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He turned toward the door, gesturing to Marcus.
"Make sure she gets the maximum security cell," Alexander said without looking back. "The one with the nice view of the brick wall."
