Chapter 379

Luis' voice came out low and controlled, as cold and dark as a winter night, and his stare pinned Reginald like a speck of dust on glass. "Do you remember what you did on the night of June 15th, twenty-five years ago?"

Reginald's pupils dilated; his whole body recoiled as if from an invisible blow. "I... I don't know what you're talking about," he stammered, each word thin and hurried.

"You don't know?" Luis' lip curled. He leaned in until his breath-cool and sharp-feathered Reginald's cheek. "Do I have to bring Howe here for you to remember how to answer?"

Fear mapped itself across Reginald's face. He hadn't had any dealings with the Sampson family in two decades, but the memory of Luis in the newspapers-the rumors, the headlines-had lodged in his brain like a splinter. He had no wish to experience Luis' methods firsthand. And yet Sherwood's old threat, the one that had shadowed him for over twenty years, tightenedits grip in his chest He turned his face away at the thought, jaw clenched so hard his molars sang, and shouted with an edge of practiced denial, "I don't know! Whatever happened on June 15th has nothing to do with me. I'm just a truck driver-working to make ends meet. How would I remember something from so long ago?"

He barked the lie and stole anxious glances at Luis from the corners of his eyes, every nerve on fire.Nothing he felt could be spoken aloud; Sherwood's threats had been with him for over twenty years, a dead-end road any confession would only cement.Admitting the truth felt like signing his own sentence.

So he kept up the act, louder now, frantic. "You've got the wrong man! I really don't know-so why am l being held?"

Exactly the performance Luis had expected. Sherwood had trained men well-made them skittish, made them predictable.

Luis rose slowly and eased his tie loose with the motion of a man removing a shirt after a long day."Trouble remembering?" he said softly, almost conversational. "Maybe you need a little help."

He meticulously adjusted the creases on his sleeve,his expression hardening to stone. "Don't worry. We have ways of making people remember." He flicked his eyes toward Neville. Neville obliged with an almost animal efficiency.

Two men moved like predators closing on prey. They tore at the ropes around Reginald's wrists with blunt efficiency and hoisted him upward before he could gather his thoughts.

Coarse hemp chafed his skin. The pulley groaned and Reginald's world tipped; the floor dropped away and the ceiling rushed to meet his vision.

The blinding incandescent lamp above him stabbed at his eyes, forcing them shut; blood thundered in his temples and the room slid into a white,disorienting hum.

"Let me go!" he screamed, flailing as chains clattered and metal complained. "You're breaking the law!"

The only answer was a brief flare as Luis struck a match. The cigar's flame painted his lips in a flicker of amber.

Smoke curled from the stub, a lazy veil that did nothing to soften the ruthlessness in his gaze.

Luis leaned against a rusted iron frame, eyes narrowed,as if the sound of Reginald's pleas were nothing but distant rain. Neville stepped forward and forced Reginald's jaw open, fingers pinning the loose flesh with a deliberate,clinical pressure. "Mr. Sampson asked you a question.Answer truthfully."

He tightened his grip, his voice an ugly calm. "If you don't speak, we'll hang you until your blood vessels burst. We have ways to make you talk before you draw your last breath."

Before the threat finished settling, the man at his side began turning the pulley.

The ropes cinched. Reginald's scream was swallowed by iron and echo, a raw, terrible sound that bounced off the empty walls of the warehouse and left behind only the metallic rhythm of chains.

When Luis uttered "June 15th,twenty-five years ago"and mentioned Howe, Bohumil jerked in the iron chair as if jolted by a live wire. His head snapped up, glasses sliding low on his nose, eyes widening at Luis with raw,unguarded horror.

The interrogation cracked open the vault of yellowed memories-the harsh glare of a delivery room, the woman lying there with a stillborn baby, Howe pressing a manila envelope into his trembling hands,and, most damning of all, the faint, muffled whimper of a newborn whose face had been smothered beneath a palm... Bohumil swallowed hard. Sweat crawled down his temples, nudging his spectacles until they slid halfway down his nose, baring eyes on the brink of collapse.

"Luis... Luis Sampson? You're Luis Sampson-the CEO of Sampson Group?" His voice cracked apart, each syllable rasping like broken glass.

Luis, cigar balanced elegantly between his knuckles,turned with leisurely menace. A smile ghosted across his lips, but his gaze cut like a blade.

"Ah," he drawled, each word stretched thin and cold."So at least someone here remembers how to think."

His leather soles whispered across the damp concrete,carrying a draft of chill that seemed to follow him. He stopped before Bohumil,leaning forward.Ashes from the cigar tumbled, one glowing ember landing squarely on Bohumil's trembling shoe. The man flinched but dared not move.

"Since you seem to remember the past," Luis murmured, his tone deceptively calm, "let's talk properly. Tell me,Bohumil-how did my sister end up raised as another family's child?"

Fear tore through Bohumil. Unlike Reginald, Bohumil had never been hardened by Howe's training. Luis ' presence-his reputation alone, his ruthlessness-shook him to the bone.

He babbled, desperation pushing him to absolve himself. "Mr. Sampson, I-I had no choice! Howe sent men to my house, knives pressed to my daughter's throat. He showed me a video, said if I didn't forge the birth certificate and switch the babies, he'd sell her off to some godforsaken place."

His voice cracked into a sob. "I'm a father too! Please,for my daughter's sake, spare me-"

Before the words had fully left his mouth, Luis' low chuckle sliced through the air. Smoke curled from his lips in a sinister ribbon, twisting like a serpent around his grin.

Neville,watching, narrowed his eyes.

Years beside Luis had taught him to read the slightest shift in his employer's expression. That cold gleam in Luis' gaze needed no translation.

He stepped forward. His fist shot out, slamming into Bohumil's right cheek with bone-snapping force.

The dull thud rang in the silence, whipping Bohumil's head to the side and sending the iron chair screeching against the floor.

His gold-rimmed glasses spun away, skidding across the floor until one lens fractured into a spider's web. Gentle as he might appear in daily life, Neville was lethaI when unleashed, having been by Luis' side for years.

Blow after blow fell with surgical cruelty-jaw, nose,eye socket-each punch placed to break without mercy. Blood spattered, teeth clattered against the floor in a wet rattle.

"Mr. Sampson asked you a question," he growled,pinning Bohumil's jaw in one hand as his other fist crashed down again. "You don't get to dodge or mumble half-truths."

Seven strikes later, Bohumil's face was a ruin-nose bent grotesquely, one eye swollen shut.

He wheezed through a crimson froth, his voice a rasping plea on his battered lips. "Mr. Sampson...mercy, please... I'll talk. I'll tell you everything..."

The warehouse swallowed his hoarse cries, leaving only the echo of his ragged breath.

Luis lifted a hand. "Shhh." That single gesture silenced Bohumil more effectively than any gag.