Chapter 7 - The Interrogation of the Phantom
Damian threw Beatrice into the estate's subterranean wine cellar, slamming the heavy iron-wrought door shut behind them. The room was freezing, illuminated only by dim, flickering amber bulbs.
Beatrice hit the stone floor hard, scraping her knees, but she immediately scrambled back to her feet, putting a heavy oak wine barrel between herself and the heir.
"Where is it?" Damian demanded, taking off his suit jacket and rolling up his sleeves. The aristocratic polish was completely gone; he looked unhinged. "You thought you could outsmart us? You thought you could tear down my empire?"
"It was never an empire," Beatrice spat, dropping the submissive maid persona completely. Her voice was strong, ringing with years of suppressed anger. "It was a slaughterhouse. You murdered those girls. You murdered that journalist."
Damian laughed, a harsh, scraping sound. "Of course we did! This is how the world works, Beatrice! The strong devour the weak. My family built this country, and we have the right to break a few eggs to make the omelet. Now, give me the drive, and I might just let you walk out of here alive."
"You're lying," Beatrice said coldly. "The moment I hand it over, you'll put a bullet in my head."
Damian lunged over the barrel, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her against the cold stone wall. His grip was suffocating. Beatrice clawed at his hands, her vision beginning to spot with black.
"I am trying to save your life, you stupid girl!" Damian hissed, his face inches from hers. "If my father gets his hands on you, he won't just kill you. He'll torture you for days! Tell me where the drive is!"
As her oxygen depleted, Beatrice’s hand frantically scrambled blindly over the stone wall behind her. She felt the heavy, iron neck of a vintage wine bottle resting on a rack.
With the last ounce of her strength, she grabbed the bottle by the neck and swung it with brutal, desperate force against the side of Damian’s head.
The thick glass shattered. Damian groaned, his eyes rolling back in his head, and he collapsed onto the stone floor, bleeding profusely from his temple.
Beatrice fell to her knees, gasping for air, her throat bruised and burning. She looked at the unconscious heir. She had just assaulted a Sterling. There was no going back. She had crossed the Rubicon.
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She quickly patted down Damian’s pockets, finding a heavy ring of master keys and a walkie-talkie. She grabbed them, running out of the wine cellar and locking the heavy iron door behind her, trapping Damian in the dark.
The citadel was falling, and Beatrice was the one holding the hammer.
