Patricia vile enough to grind decomposing household garbage onto Ethan's chest

The basement of the Caradonna estate was a stark contrast to the bright, luminous warmth of the upper floors. It was built of thick, soundproofed concrete, illuminated by harsh, buzzing fluorescent lights. There were no windows, no natural light—only the cold reality of mafia justice.

Michael was strapped to a heavy steel chair in the center of the room. His face was a swollen, purple mess, his expensive suit ruined by blood and garbage. In the corner, Patricia sat shivering on a small wooden bench, weeping silently, her hands bound behind her back with industrial zip-ties.

The heavy steel door groaned open. Vincent stepped into the room, followed closely by Robert. Vincent had removed his suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white dress shirt, revealing the thick, powerful forearms of a man who had built his empire with his bare hands.

He walked slowly toward Michael, his polished leather shoes clicking rhythmically against the concrete.

"You look terrible, Michael," Vincent noted quietly, pulling up a secondary metal chair and sitting directly in front of his son-in-law.

"Vincent... please," Michael wheezed, spitting blood onto the floor. "I told you everything. It was just for the money. We needed the cash to save the family business."

"You are a terrible liar," Vincent said smoothly. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Robert traced the watermark on your forged DNA test. Sterling Medical Group. Chicago."

Michael’s breath hitched. The remaining color drained from his face, leaving him looking like a corpse under the fluorescent lights. Patricia let out a stifled, terrified gasp from the corner.

"You didn't act alone," Vincent continued, his voice dropping to a lethal whisper. "The Sterlings funded this little coup. They gave you the documents. They gave you the strategy. What did you promise them in return?"

"Nothing!" Michael cried, shaking his head frantically. "I didn't promise them anything! They approached me! They said they just wanted to help—"

Vincent’s hand shot out with terrifying speed. He grabbed Michael by the throat, his thick fingers squeezing the younger man's windpipe, cutting off his air instantly. Michael gagged, his eyes bulging as he thrashed against the steel chair.

"I am running out of patience, Michael," Vincent murmured, his face inches from his son-in-law's. "And when I run out of patience, I run out of mercy. I will ask you one last time. What did you promise Chicago?"

Vincent released his grip. Michael slumped forward, coughing violently, gasping for air.

"The ports!" Michael choked out, tears streaming down his face. "The Brooklyn shipping ports! They wanted the transit codes for the incoming cargo ships! I promised I would give them the codes once I secured control of Claire's accounts!"

Vincent stared at him, his face a mask of cold, terrifying calm. The Brooklyn ports were the lifeblood of the Caradonna organization. If Chicago gained access, it wouldn't just be a financial loss; it would be a full-scale invasion of their territory.

"You sold the gates of my city to our enemies," Vincent stated softly.

He stood up, looking down at the broken man in the chair.

"Robert," Vincent said, not turning his head.

"Yes, Don Vincent."

"Strip him of everything. Take his rings, his watch, his shoes," Vincent ordered coldly. "Transfer him to the secure warehouse on the docks. Let the men know that Michael Reynolds is no longer a protected member of this family. They can do with him as they please."