Chapter 3 - The Interrogation of Armand
The penthouse at the top of the Lake Shore Drive tower was not a home; it was a fortress suspended among the clouds.
Floor-to-ceiling bulletproof glass overlooked the black expanse of Lake Michigan, where whitecaps whipped violently under the midnight gale. The interior was minimalist, draped in Italian marble, dark slate, and brushed brass.
Within twenty minutes of our arrival, a private physician had cleaned the cut on my forehead, checked my vitals, and handed me a brand-new inhaler along with fresh medication. One of the female staff members—a quiet woman named Rosa—had brought me a pair of charcoal cashmere lounge pants and an oversized cream knit sweater. It was the softest fabric that had ever touched my skin. I drowned in it, but for the first time in hours, the bone-deep chill began to leave my body.
I was led down a private elevator into the sub-basement of the building—a climate-controlled, soundproofed bunker beneath the parking garage.
When the elevator doors slid open, the sound of weeping met my ears.
Chef Armand was strapped to an industrial metal chair beneath a stark fluorescent bulb. His pristine white uniform was torn and soaked in sweat. His broken arm hung limp, while his other hand was zip-tied to the armrest.
Victor stood a few feet away, his suit jacket discarded, his crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to his forearms. He held a glass of scotch in one hand.
Elias stood in the shadows, holding a steel bucket.
"Molly," Victor said without turning around. He knew my footsteps. "Come here."
I stepped cautiously onto the cold concrete. Armand looked up, his swollen eyes locking onto me.
"Molly! Please!" Armand sobbed, spit flying from his lips. "Tell him! Tell him I'm just a cook! I didn't want to do it! They kidnapped Sophia! My little sister! They sent me a picture of her tied to a radiator in Gary, Indiana!"
I stopped beside Victor. Despite the horrific scene, I couldn't forget the sneer on Armand's face when he had slammed his elbow into my hip earlier that evening, calling me a disgusting cow.
"Who gave you the vial?" Victor asked quietly.
"A man named Cross," Armand wept. "He works for Morretti's lieutenant, Vance. He met me behind the alley dumpster three days ago. He gave me twenty thousand in cash and the small glass bottle. He said... he said it was undetectable. He said it would look like a natural heart attack, and if I didn't pour it over your steak, Sophia's throat would be cut from ear to ear!"
"And you believed him?" Victor took a slow sip of his scotch. "You believed that Vincent Morretti would leave you alive after you poisoned the head of the Hastings family? You foolish, pathetic creature. If Molly hadn't stopped that plate, you would have been executed in that very alley before your shift ended."
Armand’s face went entirely white. The realization that he had been marked for death regardless hit him like an anvil.
"Wait," I interjected, stepping closer to the trembling chef.
Victor raised an eyebrow. "You see something, Molly?"
I ignored the smell of sweat and urine, leaning down to inspect Armand's bare neck and collarbone. Tiny, pinprick petechiae—red blood spots beneath the skin—were blossoming along his jugular vein. His fingernails showed a faint blue discoloration against the fluorescent light.
"He's already poisoned," I whispered.
Armand gasped, trying to look at his own hands. "What?!"
"The vial," I said, looking at Armand. "Did it have a rubber dropper, or did you have to break a glass ampoule?"
"It... it had a glass top," Armand stammered, panic fluttering in his throat. "I snapped it with my bare fingers. A little bit splashed on my thumb, but I washed it immediately! I used dish soap and scalding water!"
"Organophosphates of that purity don't wash off with water; they absorb through the dermis within four seconds," I said, turning to Victor. "The chemical is lipophilic. It binds to the fat layers under the skin and slowly releases into the bloodstream. They didn't need to shoot him in the alley. By tomorrow morning, Armand would have died of respiratory failure in his sleep. No witnesses."
Armand let out a strangled wail, thrashing against his restraints. "Help me! Please, God, help me! It burns... my chest burns!"
Victor didn't flinch. He looked at me, his eyes dark with calculating intensity. "Can he be saved?"
"Atropine and pralidoxime," I said instantly. "Two milligrams of atropine intravenously every ten minutes until bronchial secretions dry up, combined with high-dose pralidoxime to reactivate the acetylcholinesterase enzymes. If you have those in your medical stores upstairs, we have maybe fifteen minutes before his central nervous system crashes."
Victor looked at Elias. "Get the kit."
Elias sprinted toward the elevator.
Armand collapsed forward against his bonds, sobbing hysterically. "Why are you helping me? I treated you like garbage! I called you... I said terrible things to you!"
I looked down at the man who had tormented me for months, feeling nothing but a profound, cold pity.
"Because I'm a scientist, Armand," I said softly. "And unlike you, I don't let people die when I have the power to save them."
Victor stared at me, a muscle feathering in his jaw. When Elias returned with the medical kit, I took the pre-filled syringes without hesitation, snapping the caps and sliding the needles smoothly into Armand’s brachial vein with clinical precision. Within minutes, the chef's ragged gasping slowed, his color returning from cyanotic blue to pale gray.
Victor stepped up beside me as Armand drifted into an exhausted stupor.
"You are full of surprises, Miss Higgins," Victor murmured, his shoulder lightly brushing mine. "Compassionate to your enemies, brilliant under pressure, and entirely fearless."
"I am terrified, Mr. Hastings," I confessed, my voice trembling as the adrenaline ebbed away once more. "I don't belong in this world. I just want to survive."
Victor reached out, his thumb gently brushing across my jawline, lifting my chin so that I was forced to meet his gaze. The heat of his touch sent an unfamiliar shiver racing straight down my spine.
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"From the moment you grabbed my wrist tonight, Molly, you became part of this world," he said, his voice low and possessive. "Morretti knows you ruined his masterstroke. He will burn Chicago to the ground to find you. But he will have to go through me first."
***