Chapter 6: The Interrogation
Police Department – Conference Room
"Tommy Vercetti. Twenty-three years old. Member of the Camorra Family…"
The whiteboard was plastered with documents, photographs, and reports, forming a timeline of Tommy's life.
From working in his father's small printing factory as a boy, to his school years, and finally to his initiation into the Mafia—the police had pulled together everything.
In fact, the investigation was so thorough that it seemed the officers now knew Tommy's past better than Tommy himself.
The more they uncovered, the more serious the mood became.
Even ignoring his terrifying personal combat record, his identity alone was enough to alarm them. Becoming a recognized Mafia figure at such a young age was no ordinary feat.
And then came the detail that made the room murmur—his alleged connection with Gianna Antonio, the daughter of the current Camorra leader.
When the officer presenting the report mentioned this, chuckles rippled through the room.
"No wonder he rose so fast."
"Ah… so it wasn't just talent."
Some smirked knowingly, joking about whether Tommy's "skills" below were as impressive as his "skills" with a gun.
The laughter lightened the heavy atmosphere for a moment, but it didn't change the truth: they had caught a very big fish.
If they could get information out of him, their careers might leap forward. Promotions, recognition, respect—all within reach.
But when the commanding officer asked who would handle the interrogation, silence fell instantly.
Everyone wanted the reward, but no one wanted the risk. The Camorra Family wasn't some street gang—they were a machine of blood and influence. To confront them directly was to paint a target on your own back.
So when the superior repeated the question, the room stayed hushed.
Until one eager voice broke through.
"I'll do it!"
Heads turned. Rookie officer Jill Valentine had raised her hand, her young face glowing with determination.
A newborn calf fears no tiger. She had no idea of the weight behind her choice.
Hank, sitting beside her, felt his stomach twist. By the time he tried to stop her, it was too late. With a heavy sigh, he rose to his feet, resigned to follow his partner into the lion's den.
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Interrogation Room
Tommy Vercetti sat comfortably in the chair, cuffs on his wrists but his posture loose, almost casual. He leaned back as though this were a routine meeting and not a criminal interrogation.
The sight made Hank uneasy.
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law…" Hank recited, voice steady but mechanical. He lowered the file and looked up. "Do you understand?"
Silence.
Tommy didn't answer. Didn't nod. Didn't shake his head. He just stared at Jill, his dark eyes fixed on her face as though studying every detail.
The seconds stretched.
"As the saying goes," Tommy thought dryly, "confess leniently, sit in prison forever; resist stubbornly, go home for the New Year. You told me I have the right to remain silent. So, I'll exercise it."
"Tommy Vercetti, watch your attitude!" Jill snapped, slamming her hand on the table. Her voice was sharp, her tone cold—but her flushed cheeks betrayed her inexperience.
Hank quickly stepped in, softening his voice to play the other role. "Don't be nervous, Mr. Vercetti. We just want to understand what happened. If you have anything to say—information about the Camorra Family, for example—this is the perfect chance."
Tommy chuckled. "Good cop, bad cop? Really?"
He shook his head, amused. He'd seen this act in movies countless times, and Jill was no actress. No matter how fierce she tried to look, her youth and beauty dulled the edge of her glare. She didn't scare him—she intrigued him.
"Take me back to my cell," he said flatly. "I don't feel like chatting."
"You—!" Jill's hands balled into fists, her composure slipping.
"Jill!" Hank hissed, pulling her back before she lost control. After a tense pause, he signaled the guards to escort Tommy out.
As the door closed behind their suspect, Hank exhaled heavily. "Be patient, Jill. He'll talk eventually."
But his words were hollow. He knew the truth—Tommy had asked to return to his cell for a reason. He was stalling. Once his lawyer arrived, their chance to pry anything useful out of him would vanish.
In the hours that followed, the department tried everything. Different tactics, different officers, all hoping for a crack. But Tommy remained stone-faced, an unyielding wall.
His father was dead. He had no relatives. He didn't drink, didn't gamble, didn't touch drugs. Friends? None they could pressure. The man was a fortress with no weak points.
Some officers whispered about getting "rough." But the moment those words were spoken, their colleagues silenced them with sharp, fearful looks.
Lay a hand on Tommy, and it wouldn't be just him they'd answer to. It would be the Camorra. And who wanted to spend the rest of their life wondering when a bullet would find them on their way home?
So the interrogation became nothing more than a formality.
And Tommy Vercetti, calm and silent, remained untouchable.