Page 3 of Tortured Hearts
“Go fuck yourself.”
“You can get Marcello to talk, Gianni,” his partner interjects. “In fact, you may be the only one who can.”
I don’t dignify that with a response.
Lattimore exhales a frustrated breath. “If you won’t do it for yourself, then do it forher.” Drawing the crime scene photo from the folder, he pushes it across the table. “Victoria Fiero didn’t deserve to die like this. That girl had no business being in that restaurant. While you’re a sick son of a bitch, you didn’t go there to kill her. We know that was Marcello’s doing. What we don’t know is why.”
I wish I didn’t.
Whoever said the “truth sets you free” was a fucking liar. It traps you in guilt and drowns you in hate. There are no secrets inside my father’s inner circle. The elite wear their sins like crowns. That’s why my father’s callous confession came as no surprise.
“You said the restaurant was empty.”
“And you said there wasn’t another woman. It seems we both lied.”
“She was innocent, you sonof a bitch!”
“All choices have consequences, Gianni. Remember that next time.”
Staring down at what’s left of Victoria, I hover my foot over a sacred line.
He was right. All choicesdohave consequences.
A throat clears, and I glance up to find four steeled eyes on me. “Look,” Lattimore says, “we’re prepared to offer you a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
His sullen expression brightens. “Get us something on Marcello, and we’ll plea bargain this down to involuntary manslaughter with time served.”
Both flinch at my sudden outburst of laughter. “You want me to wear a wire? Do you seriously think my father is that dumb?”
“No. We think he’s that arrogant. His men, he’d question. But his son…?” Lattimore shakes his head with confidence. “He’d never see poison in his own bloodline.” No one says shit as that needle works its way under the surface. When it’s embedded deep, he taps the center of the picture. “If you want revenge for Victoria, then take it to the source. Don’t let her death be in vain.”
I was wrong. This isn’t just a storm. It’s a goddamn hurricane.
I clench my fists behind my back. “Hypothetically, let’s say I get you what you want. Then, what happens?”
“We arrest him, have bail denied, then keep him incarcerated while he awaits trial.”
I chuckle. “Great. For the record, I prefer a closed casket.”
Lattimore stares at me, that strait-laced attitude launching into overdrive. “I don’t think you understand, Gianni. Your part involves more than incriminating Marcello. You’re our star witness. For your safety, you’ll be placed in protectivewitness relocation. We’ll give you a new name, a new identity, and get you the hell out of New Jersey until this thing goes to trial. Once you testify and put the final nail in the Deadpan Don’s coffin, you’re free to start over.”
Freedom. What a pleasant illusion.
“What makes you think I want to start over?”
“You don’t have a choice.” Collecting the damning photos, he tucks them neatly inside the folder. Their stares turn from steely to impatient as the second hand of the clock ticks away the third and final hour. “So, do we have a deal?”
Hell no.
This isn’t their fight to win, and my father’s blood isn’t theirs to draw. I’ll serve my time, then kill that bastard myself. But as I open my mouth to tell them where they can shove their deal, a memory unlocks, and I’m thirteen years old again, watching my Uncle Anton drag my father’s blood-soaked body into the house.
I remember him shouting at me to take my T-shirt off and hold it to the bullet wound in his chest. I remember the white lights on the Christmas tree flickering across his pale face as crimson stained the floor. But mainly, I remember asking my father if he was afraid to die.
I’ll never forget his ragged response.
“Death is nothing, Giovanni. The only fate to fear is a cage.”
