Chapter 6: The Reality of Iron
Chapter 6: The Reality of Iron
Seventeen miles away, in a holding cell at the 19th Precinct, Isabella Rossi was finally experiencing the terrifying collapse of her reality.
Gone was the silk crimson gown, confiscated as evidence because it was specked with Khloe’s blood. In its place, Isabella wore a stiff, scratchy, neon-orange jumpsuit that smelled faintly of industrial bleach and old sweat. The heavy silver bracelets of her handcuffs had been removed, leaving her wrists bruised and raw.
She sat on a rigid metal bench attached to the concrete wall, her knees pulled tight to her chest. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed with a maddening, incessant hum. There was no amber lighting here. There was no champagne. There was only the heavy iron bars, the lingering stench of urine from the hallway, and the terrifying, cold truth that her father's money had not magically opened the doors.
Why hasn't he fixed this yet? Isabella thought frantically, digging her manicured fingernails into her own arms until they left crescent-shaped indentations. It’s just a misunderstanding. It's just Khloe.
The heavy steel door at the end of the cell block clanged open, making her jump. A weary-looking corrections officer walked down the line, stopping at her cell.
"Rossi. Your lawyer is here."
Isabella practically leaped off the bench. She was escorted to a small, windowless interrogation room divided by a thick pane of smudged plexiglass. Sitting on the other side was Harrison Sterling, the most expensive defense attorney in Manhattan—and a man who usually wore an expression of smug confidence.
Today, Harrison looked entirely defeated.
Isabella snatched the plastic telephone receiver off the wall. "Harrison! Thank God. Where is my father? Did you pay the bail? Get me out of this disgusting place right now!"
Harrison slowly picked up his receiver. He didn't look at her; he looked at the open file folder on the metal table in front of him.
"Isabella," Harrison began, his voice gravelly and grim. "There is no bail."
Isabella froze, the air evaporating from her lungs. "What do you mean, there is no bail? My father can pay anything. A million. Ten million. Just write the check!"
"It’s not about the money," Harrison explained, finally looking up to meet her panicked gaze. "You were arraigned via closed-circuit video twenty minutes ago. The judge denied bail entirely. You have been remanded to custody, which means they are transferring you to the high-security wing at Rikers Island within the hour."
"Rikers?" Isabella shrieked, slamming her hand against the plexiglass. "Are you insane?! I can't go to Rikers! I'm a Rossi! I didn't even do anything! She fell!"
"Stop talking," Harrison snapped, a rare show of temper from the seasoned lawyer. He leaned closer to the glass, his eyes narrowing. "You need to shut your mouth and listen to me very carefully. The 'she fell' narrative is dead. Your father tried to push it to the tabloids this morning, and it blew up in our faces. Do you want to know why the judge denied your bail, Isabella?"
Isabella’s breath hitched. She stared at him, unable to form a word.
"Because the prosecution didn't just bring sworn statements to the arraignment," Harrison said, his tone dripping with dread. "They brought a high-definition video file. A video pulled from a newly installed, hidden security camera in the VIP suite."
The color drained completely from Isabella’s face. The memory of Richard Vance holding up that silver tablet flashed in her mind, a nightmare she had desperately tried to convince herself was just a bluff.
"They have audio, Isabella," Harrison continued ruthlessly, tearing away her last shred of delusion. "They have you telling a pregnant woman she was supposed to 'vanish.' They have a crystal-clear shot of you driving your heel into her abdomen while she was on the floor. The judge watched it, turned pale, and immediately declared you an extreme danger to society and a flight risk."
"No..." Isabella whispered, dropping the phone slightly. "No, no, no, my father can fix it. He can suppress the tape."
"Your father can't even fix his own company right now," Harrison replied, running a hand over his face. "Marcus Thorne has launched a massive, coordinated attack on Wall Street. Rossi Enterprises’ stock is in a freefall. The board of directors is panicking. Your father is bleeding millions of dollars by the hour, and no one will return his calls because nobody wants to be in the crossfire of Marcus Thorne’s wrath."
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Harrison stood up, closing his briefcase with a sharp snap. "I will try to negotiate a plea deal. But you need to prepare yourself, Isabella. You aren't going to a Swiss retreat. You are looking at a minimum of fifteen years in a federal penitentiary."
As Harrison turned and walked out of the room, Isabella let the plastic receiver slip from her trembling fingers. It dangled by its metal cord, swinging gently against the wall. The reality of the cold, unforgiving iron had finally set in, and for the first time in her pampered, untouchable life, Isabella Rossi realized she was entirely, hopelessly doomed.
