Page 2 of Tortured Hearts
I glance down to find a charred ace of spades.
Dramatic, but useless. The card may be my signature, but I’m no amateur. I wear gloves to every job. There’s no way that thing has my prints on it. Besides, no one outside the Marchesi elite knows I’m the fire-breathing enforcer of the New Jersey mob. “Torch” has remained a faceless enigma for a reason.
I chuckle, breaking the silence. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Does the FBI seriously believe Marcello Marchesi’s son is out doing his dirty work? Come on, Lattimore; I thought you agents were smarter than that.”
“I admit it seemed far-fetched,” he says, drumming his fingers on the table. “Until an eyewitness put you at the scene of the crime.”
I shrug. “A simple case of mistaken identity.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“Always.”
“Then explain how surveillance footage from a liquor store across the street from the crime scene captured another smoking gun.” His cool demeanor implodes as he flings the contents of the folder across the table until all that’s left is one photo.
I clamp my teeth so hard my jaw tics.
Fuck.
A steady roar rattles in my ears as I stare at the photo in his hands. They’ve magnified the grainy image to hell and back, but there’s no mistaking my face. They couldn’t have more damning proof if I’d jerked off in front of the blaze, then pissed in the ashes.
“Impressive.”
Lines dart across his forehead. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say? Congratulations? I’dclap, but I’m a little tied up at the moment.”
“So, that’s it?” A scowl blooms across his bony face. “No argument? No rebuttal? You’re willing to go down for arson and murder without a fight?”
Willing? No.
Resigned? Yes.
Every made man takes his oath knowing the path he walks will either end in front of a bullet or behind bars. I won’t beg for shit, especially leniency for the unforgivable. They can send me to jail or hell; it doesn’t matter. Knowing the truth is the worst punishment of all.
“The FBI has had a hard-on for my family for years, Lattimore. You should know our rules better than anyone.”
“Ah, yes… Theomertàcode of silence.” Tapping his forefinger to his chin, he leans back in his chair. “What would you say if I told you I don’t want to arrest you?”
“I’d say it’s a trap and to fuck off.”
He chuckles. “Fair enough. But what if the trap isn’t for you?”
“What if you stop dicking around and say what you mean?”
Ignoring his partner’s prominent side-eye, Lattimore clasps his hands together and rests his forearms on the table like we’ve become secret allies. “Here’s the thing, Gianni… We have time-stamped footage that places you at the crime scene. It’s a guaranteed conviction. But why cage a tiger shark when you can spear a great white?”
“Your metaphors are getting irritating,Agent.”
The tension that’s been bouncing around the room spikes as his fist hits the table with a crack. “I want your fucking father,” he snaps. “We’ve been tailing Marcello since you were a teenager, but he’s a smart bastard who’s always stayed one step ahead of us. Just when we think we’ve established a pattern, heflips it.”
No shit.My father is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. He never meets in the same place twice, conducts mandatory pat downs before all meetings, and refuses to do business by phone. The paranoia I used to roll my eyes at doesn’t seem so outlandish now.
“That appears to be a ‘you’ problem,” I say coolly.
He nods. “Agreed. One you can solve with a choreographed conversion.”
This bureaucratic idiot has lost his damn mind. I’m glad my hands are restrained because what he’s suggesting is not only insulting, but it’s also suicide.
