Page 1 of Tortured Hearts
Prologue
GIANNI
Montclair, New Jersey
Four Months Ago
Penance is like rolling thunder, heard in the distance and often ignored. It isn’t until the skies turn black and the heavens unleash their fury that people run for cover. But by then, it’s too late. The storm has already descended.
That’s where I am right now… Caught in the eye of my own storm.
I glance up at the clock, watching as the second-hand ticks away another sixty seconds. After two hours, my irritation with it has dulled, and instead of grinding my teeth to the monotonous beat, I click my tongue to it.
Tick. Tock.
I don’t bother sliding my gaze toward the door. I know it’s still going to be closed, just like it’s been for the last one hundred and fifty-four minutes. Still, I’m in no hurry for company, especially men whose sole purpose in life is to ensure I spend the rest of mine behind bars. Not that I don’t deserve topay for what I’ve done, but I’m not the only one with blood on my hands.
I may have lit the match, but someone else fanned the flame.
Every muscle in my body aches from sitting in the same position, so I shift, but with my hands cuffed behind my back it gives little relief. I’m on the edge of snapping my wrists just to revive blood flow when the door opens, and two men in dark suits and pinched expressions walk in.
The moment we make eye contact, I know something’s off.
Instead of launching into the good cop/bad cop routine, they unbutton their jackets and solemnly take their seats across the table from me. Seconds pass. There’s no rush to question. No immediate accusations. No push for a confession. Just cool, calm, dangerous silence.
Shit.
I recognize a setup when I see one. Montclair Police may have brought me in, but they were just the opening act. The main show belongs to the Feds.
“Giovanni Marchesi…” the taller one says, tossing a folder on the table. He’s a lanky son of a bitch with a staring problem. Too bad my hands are bound. A swift swing of my pocketknife would take care of that for him. “I never thought I’d findyouhere.”
“That makes two of us.”
“I’m Agent Lattimore, and this is Agent Gibbs.” He nods to the sweaty, bald idiot sitting next to him. “In case you were wondering, we’re with the FBI.”
“I wasn’t.”
“Glad to see you haven’t lost your edge.” His attention drops along with his chin as he opens the folder. Grimacing, he spins it around, then shoves it toward me. “Most men would after doing this to someone they claim to care about.”
First rule of interrogation: never respond how they want. A practice I’d have no problem adhering to if I didn’t already know what was in front of me. Call it destructive masochism, but I can’t stop my eyes from lowering … then, immediately regret it.
Her body is unrecognizable—burned beyond recognition. Looking away from the revolting image tips my hand too much, so, forcing a flat expression, I meet the bastard’s eye and lie. “I don’t know who that is.”
“No, I guess you wouldn’t. Twenty-seven hours ago, she looked much different.” Lattimore flips the page, and this one’s harder to look at because she’s smiling.If she only knew.“Beautiful girl,” he notes. “According to the medical examiner, she suffered horribly. Makes you wonder what was going through her head in those final moments.”
“I’d imagine it was confusion at why her lover lured her to her death,” his stockier counterpart pipes up.
I slide a lethal glare between them. “Do either of you have a point to make? I have shit to do.”
Lattimore slams his palms on the table. “Drop the act, Marchesi. We both know the fire atNonna’s Ristorantewas no accident, and neither was that girl’s murder.”
“Is that right?”
“Please, keep digging your own grave. You’re only giving us more ammunition for when this goes to trial.” He leans in close, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There’s a stack of vandalism and extortion-related harassment complaints filed against your family by Donatella and Luis Fiero. Those would be your dead girlfriend’s parents and the owners of a smoking pile of ash, by the way.”
I glare at him, the thin hold I have on my temper slipping.
“You fucked up this time, Gianni.” Siftingthrough the contents of the folder, he pulls out a photo and places it on top like a prize. “Or do you prefer to be calledTorch?”
