Page 104 of Immoral

Assessing the situation, I assume it's best to obey. I sit on the metal chair and start counting. The officer who booked me removes my handcuffs and leaves.

The two other men take seats. The one with the neutral expression says, "I'm detective Anderson. This is detective Contray."

Not flinching, I stare at the mirrored glass and continue counting. They both study me, but I keep my gaze between them. Anderson rises then paces the tiny room. He says, "Gianni Marino. It looks like the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."

The piece of shit has a lot of balls insulting my papà. Not flinching, I remind myself of everything he's instructed me to do in this situation. I count through my anger.

"It seems you've been busy," Contray declares.

I cross my arms, sit back in my chair, and scowl at him. I continue counting, resisting the urge to give him a piece of my mind, yet also wondering what he's referencing.

Contray violently taps the table. "The club. The docks. It seems wherever you go, bloodshed follows."

My pulse pounds faster. Upon Dante's instructions, Finn and Killian O'Malley, along with my brothers, shot multiple high-ranking Abruzzos to rescue Brenna. Dante and I also took out more Abruzzos at the docks a few months back. I doubt these fuckers have any hard evidence I'm involved, but it's still nerve-racking. I'd be in prison for life if they attached me to anything.

Still, I maintain my cool, not changing my demeanor. In an emotionless voice, I state, "I don't know what you're referring to."

Anderson chuckles. He turns to Contray. "I assumed he was a lot of things, but stupid wasn't one of them."

I wiggle my toes in my shoes, keeping my expression the same but wanting to show Anderson just how "stupid" I am with my fists. I sniff hard then lean forward. Lowering my voice, I claim, "Want to know what I think?"

Contray arches his eyebrows. "What's that?"

I study each man's face until they shift in their seats then reply, "I think you don't know shit about anything. If you did, you wouldn't have me in here, since I have no clue what you're referencing. But what I do know is that I have a right to an attorney if you want to have me in this room. So let me make my phone call."

"Lawyering up already, huh? It sounds like you've got lots to hide," Anderson accuses.

Ignoring him, I look at the mirrored glass. "Did you hear me say I'm utilizing my right to my attorney?"

Ten seconds of silence passes. I glance up at the camera in the corner of the room. "Are you recording this? I'm now stating for the third time I want my attorney."

Three more seconds pass, and there's a knock on the glass. The door opens, and Contray scoots his chair back so fast, it scrapes across the floor, making a loud, shrill sound. He mutters under his breath, "Didn't think you were a pussy." He stomps out of the room and Anderson follows.

The door slams and I stay in the same seated position for several minutes. An officer I haven't seen before steps inside. "Time to go. Rise and put your hands in front of you."

I assume the position, and he cuffs me. He leads me down the hallway and through another door. Cells line each side, and men begin to shout. He opens one and uncuffs me then pushes me inside.

Relieved to be out of the interrogation room, I glance around my new surroundings. A homeless man sleeps on the bench. Another man with skull and dagger tattoos is wearing a white tank top and dirty ripped jeans. He scowls, and I give him a similar look so he knows not to attempt to mess with me. A third man smells like a brewery. I assume he's still drunk, high, and possibly has some mental issues. He's babbling to himself.

"Does he ever shut up?" I ask the man wearing the tank top.

He moves his jaw from side to side, as if contemplating whether to answer my question or not. He finally responds, "He'll shut up in about two minutes before starting again."

I hold in a groan and nod. I pace the cell, wondering how long I'll be in here. They haven't allowed me to make my phone call. I decide I'll kick up a fuss when the next guard comes through.

After a few hours of listening to the drunk guy on and off, I get antsy. I turn to the tank-top man. "Does a guard ever come down here?"

He shrugs. "Not unless they're adding someone else to a cell."

"Great. How long have you been in here?"

"Three days."

My gut drops at the thought. In disbelief, I question, "Three?"

He glowers. "Yep. That's what happens when you can't afford an attorney. The court-appointed ones don't do shit for you."

"But you got your phone call?"

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