by S. M. Soto
They’ve fucked with the wrong one.
“Excuse m-me, sir-r.”
I pause my stride at the sound of the frightened voice. Slowly, I glance over my shoulder, toward the source, keeping my face blank, my eyes cold as ice. The woman behind the counter flinches. The blood drains from her face. If I didn’t have shit to do, I’d bask in her fear. It’s practically coating the air. And it’s not just coming from her. It’s all of them.
With calculating eyes, I slowly scan my gaze around the station, realizing all eyes are on me. Phones ring in the distance, going unanswered. It’s so quiet, save for police radios and ringing, that I can practically hear the pounding beat of each of their hearts.
“H-how can I-I—” she suddenly clears her throat, as if realizing how weak and afraid she sounds. “How can I help you?”
“You tell me.”
“Right,” she whispers under her breath. Even from a few feet away, I can see how shaky her hand is as she reaches for the telephone. She speaks in hushed tones, trying to look at everything else but me.
Finally, I see just who I was expecting rounding the corner. He was most likely sitting in his office, jacking off to porn instead of getting work done like everyone thinks he is. His eyes are narrowed on me and I can practically feel his anger. His body is vibrating with it.
Detective Morgan is a white, middle-aged man with years of wear and tear on his face. He has a dark receding hairline and a slight belly. That’s not what bothers me. It’s the vendetta he’s had against my family for years. I have no doubt he’s doing all he can to help aid this FBI investigation even if it kills him not to get the credit for doing his due diligence. And alongside him walks a black woman dressed exactly like him. Both of them are wearing dress pants and white button-ups with black jackets. I eye detective Morgan and his loosely knotted tie. Sensing some frustration from him. The woman, who already know is Janet Denning’s, is partners with Fuckface. I have no doubt both of them are fuming at the fact that I had the gall to come into their space.
Tit for tat, motherfuckers.
They have that air of detectives who mean business. They wear somber yet superior expression on both of their faces. Too bad I don’t give a shit.
They thought they could fuck with me and trip me up by sending units out to the estate. It was a scare tactic, one that indeed tripped me up, but it also didn’t have their desired effect because it only made me angrier. And that’s why I’m here. About to shit all over this investigation and the evidence they think they have on me.
“Mr. Sabella, I’m surprised to see you here,” Detective Asher Morgan says, and I can practically hear him grinding his teeth together. Frustration laced in his tone.
“Are you really that surprised?” I mock. “Your station seems to be quite infatuated with my estate and whereabouts as of late, so I thought I’d come in, offering up any answers to the questions your peers seem to have. So there’s no confusion.” My voice comes out harder than I intend to based on the wary expression that takes over detective Denning’s face.
“Fine,” Morgan grits. “Follow us.”
They turn their backs, stiff as boards and lead me through the station. I feel the eyes of their peers on me as I walk, and I catch the eye of a familiar officer. I keep my expression blank, but the way she watches me, like she knows something, lips pursed with anger…yeah, don’t fucking like that. She was one of the younger rookie cops who have been paying visits to the estate. She was there at their last visit when Sophia walked in.
Looks like I’ll have to keep an eye on her too.
I already know where the two are taking me before we get there. It has my lips twisting with amusement. Monte and Clarence supplied me with a new blueprint of the rebuilt precinct. I know where each room is, where the evidence locker is, the booking station before jail. I even know where both detective’s offices are and where we’re headed? Not either of their offices.
Morgan pushes the door open to the interrogation room with an attitude that will soon be rectified. Or not. It’ll probably just get worse once they hear what I have to say.
“Have a seat, Mr. Sabella,” Janet orders, seeming to have found her backbone again.
“Please, call me Diavolo. Mr. Sabella is my father.”
Asher’s lips thin and Janet shakes her head. Probably at my name. Not many people know my real name and when they hear it out loud, they always cringe. Both of them take the open chairs across from me on the opposite side of the table. Janet folds her hands on the table and leans forward, a no-nonsense expression on her face and Asher leans back, anger etched on his.
Guess they’re playing bad cop, bad cop.
I smirk.
“We have some questions for you, Mr.—” at the expression on my face, Janet catches herself. “I mean, Diavolo, are you up to answering them?”
“Why else would I be here, detective?”
The expression on Morgan’s face sours.
“Where were you the night of November sixteenth between the times of seven p.m. and one a.m.?”
Ah, so they’re starting with the Grand Aster.
“I’m sure you already know the answer to that, but I’ll humor you anyway. I went to the Aster with a few of my associates around eleven p.m. We left a little after arriving. Let’s just say midnight. Which I’m sure you’ve both already watched on the surveillance videos from that night. You’ve probably viewed them over and over again by now, haven’t you?”
“We find it odd that your father’s casino blows up not long after your departure. I mean, what are the odds?” Detective Denning’s keeps this taunting undertone in her voice, probably trying to piss me off. It’s only making me want to laugh. “Is there any reason, a payout possibly, as to why you’d blow up your father’s establishment?”
I smile. But the grin isn’t friendly. Not in the least. I lean forward, resting my forearms against the cool hunk of metal resting between us.
“If you think for one second, I’d blow up my own establishment, you’re as incompetent as I thought you were. Watch the clips again. Those men? The four of them were decoys and one planted a device in there. Why don’t you start by looking for them?”
They won’t have any luck with that though, because I killed them. But I know them and their kind well enough to know they won’t give up on me as their top suspect. I bet they haven’t even looked into any other leads.
“Where were you then?” Detective Morgan demands.
“The rest of the night, I spent on the estate with my father and his work associates. Would you like them to vouch for my whereabouts?”
What I don’t say is, I was home, ran into paid escorts that my father brought over and rained hell on Grigori’s men after finding out there was a rat. But I keep that to myself.
“Of course,” Janet snaps as if she knew that was going to be a dead end. “Would you mind explaining a few of these photographs?” she asks, opening the manila file folder on the table and splaying out the same photographs that Monte and Clarence got me copies of, back at the estate.
I eye each of them, already knowing what’s on all of them. No matter how damning they look, they don’t know the whole story. They have no fingerprints and after I get done here, they won’t have any probable cause linking me to any of this.
The first photograph Asher slides toward me is of me in the shipping yard. There’s nothing suspicious about the picture per se, but because they found a shipping container with women inside in the same shipping yard, on the same date, they think that’s enough justification for their case. Too bad for them.
“The Sabella’s have a few shipping containers here, some filled with product from industries the Sabella’s work with and the others, well, those are my prized possessions.”
They shoot each other a look and I see the gleam in their eyes. They think they have me.
“I have a few rare vehicles that I keep in the bigger shipping containers. I came to discuss switching containers after a ne
w purchase of a Lykan Hypersport. In this picture,” I say, pointing to the photograph. “I was there to take the model number and prepare to license another container.”
I hear Morgan’s scoff of disbelief.
“Are you aware the night you were in the shipping yard, the authorities found a shipping container that was filled with women. Women that have been trafficked.”
I keep my expression blank. “I wasn’t aware. But I assure you, while I was in the shipping yard, I didn’t see or hear anything suspicious. And I can also assure you, I’d never harm a woman. Especially with my fiancée expecting soon. You, it seems, have your fingers pointed at the wrong man.”
Their faces boil with anger. The color steadily rises up from their neck to their faces, like a thermometer.
“We talked to a few of the women from the containers. One of them described in great detail, that a man, who oddly fits your description, killed the men who were holding them and set them free. Know anything about that?”
Hmm, so they know a little more than I anticipated. Can’t tell how well this works in my favor.
“I don’t believe I do. I’m Italian, detective. We’re one in a million here in Chicago. I must have a familiar face.”
“I can assure you, Diavolo. If a woman saw your face, she wouldn’t say you’re one in a million.”
I can sense bitterness in her tone, like she believes I rely on my looks for everything. Well, she’s wrong. I use my fists for that.
“And what about this photograph, Diavolo.” Morgan sneers, shoving the grainy photo toward me. It’s obvious the rest of the guys are cropped so I look like the only one there at the time. So it purposely doesn’t look like a team effort, because it’s easier to pin it on me than to explain why a gang of men were there. The photo in question is a far shot of me stepping off the hangar in Vegas. Where I took care of Miles and the HawkFire issue with the rest of the guys. I’m still not certain that’s done and over with, but for now, it’s enough.
“Took a trip with some friends down to Vegas. This photo is when I landed.”
“In your private jet. Is there any reason you fly privately instead of commercial with first class?”
I smirk. “If you had your own private jet, would you fly commercially, detective?”
His lips thin.
“We find it suspicious that the day you landed in Vegas, a mister Miles Richter goes missing. His family and neighbors haven’t seen him in weeks. How do you know this man?”
They slide his photograph toward me, and I eye it, scanning his face, feigning interest. “I don’t know this man,” I lie. “I’ve never seen him.
Morgan slams his hands down on the table in exasperation. “This man was into some dangerous shit and you expect us to believe he just up and left? Disappeared? While you were in the same fucking city? This has Sabella written all over it.”
I shrug. “You said he was into some dangerous ‘shit,’ maybe he’s in hiding.”
“We both know that’s bullshit,” Morgan growls. And I chuckle just to really piss him off.
Janet sighs. “One final question, Diavolo, then you can go.”
She makes it sound like I didn’t come here of my own free will.
“Do you recognize this man?”
I pause on the photograph of Finlay. I wasn’t expecting this one, as it wasn’t in any of the files Clarence and Monte found. But it makes sense. They’re connecting the explosion of his operation and his disappearance with me. Maybe fuckface hasn’t just been sitting in his office, jacking off to porn this whole time.
“We have reason to believe this man has been following you for some time. But the trail we have on him goes cold after an incident at Oz Park. Does that ring any bells?”
I keep my expression blank. “On the off chance of coming off like a dick, I can assure you, I’d have no reason to be at a public park. My estate is bigger than any public park, with grounds that span miles. So, no, I don’t know what you’re referring to.”
“And this man,” Morgan reiterates. “You have no idea who is?”
“None.”
She sighs in exasperation at my answer, shaking her head to herself.
“Thank you for coming in, Diavolo. We’ll look into what you’ve said, make sure everything checks out. Thanks for cooperating.” Detective Janet sighs like she knew this whole meeting would be a bust.
Pushing up from the table, I nod, trying to pretend like I’m not frustrated that I wasted my time here with them. There’s a bigger plan I’m working on.
“Is there a restroom nearby?”
“Down the hall to the left, it’s the third door on the right.”
“Thank you, detectives. Here’s my card,” I say, sliding the piece of card stock toward them. “Give me a call if there are any more questions you have for me. Glad to help.”
I stride out of the room, following their directions. Only, I don’t stop at the third door on the right. I make another right down the hall and bypass the locked door with ease. I’ve already had Clarence glitch the station’s surveillance system, so they don’t see me in here. Stepping into the room, I leave the lights off, using the light from the monitors to guide me. Finding the main hub, I log into the system through the back door, Monte’s help of course, and search through the database. I scan each file folder, looking for anything with my name or anything that can possibly be what they have on me. I don’t find anything.
My lips curl over my teeth and I pause on a folder labeled, FBI—Sensitive material.
Clicking that one open, my eyes narrow. I’ve hit the jackpot.
Taking the drive, I load the file and all of its contents on me and my family. Snatching the drive once everything is loaded, I close down and slip out of the room, back down the hall. I push through the bathroom and head straight for the sink to wash my hands. Just like I knew it would, the bathroom door flies open and Morgan’s wild eyes fly to me. I feign innocence. Freezing while washing and glancing up at him in the mirror.
“Problem?”
His lips thin. “I’m onto you, Sabella,” he warns and this time, I smile. It’s cold, and even though he tries to hide it, I see the way he withers.
“Good luck on your case, Detective. Oh, and have fun at your daughter’s recital tonight. You should be proud, not many kids her age can do ballet as well as she can.”
I watch in satisfaction as the color drains from his face. With a calm that is surely ticking him off, I walk toward the paper towel dispenser and with methodical movements, I dry my hands before turning on him.
Slapping my hand on his shoulder in parting, I pass him, tossing back, “See you around, Detective.”
I walk out of the station, feeling their eyes on me and slow to a stop when I get near my Aston Martin. Standing there, next to my vehicle is the young cop. Her eyes glance around her skittishly before they narrow on me. With my head cocked to the side, I close the distance, searching her expression for what she could possibly want. I don’t have to search for long.
She jabs a finger in my face. “I know what you’ve done.”
I raise a brow. “Please, Officer. Enlighten me.”
“Your fiancée. Is she even there of her own free will? Because I recognized her. My family is from Stockton. I was born and raised in California. Want to know how far Stockton is from Sacramento? Huh? I know who she is.”
I steel my expression.
“She’s there of her own free will. Feel free to ask her. But let me make something clear, officer,” I growl, taking a threatening step toward her. Her face blanches, fear now coating the air. “If you dig too deep and end up hurting my girl,” I step into her, glaring daggers at her. “I’m going to hurt you. I’m going to take everything you love. Got me?” I seethe, my voice like nails down her back. I keep my expression blank, in case anyone outside the station is watching.
“Is that a threat?” she chokes.
“It most certainly is. Leave her alone. Because like I said, if anything happ
ens to her, or if I miss the birth of my son because you think you know something, I’m going to hurt you.” I watch her struggle to swallow down her fear. “Now get the fuck away from my car.”
She stumbles away at the command.
On the drive back to the estate, the first person I dial is Monte.
“I need everything you have on one of the younger officers on the force. She’s mid-twenties. Red hair and fair skin. Officer C. Bentley.”
“Was there a problem?”
“With the detectives? No. With her? Maybe.”
I end the call, heading back to the estate to check on Sophia.
As soon as I walk through the door, I find Sophia chewing on her fingernails, pacing the marble floors. I shoot Garrett a questioning glance and he shrugs, looking like he’s given up. Knowing Soph, he probably tried to keep her busy, but she was too stressed and anxious, needing to pace instead.
“There you are,” she breathes, running into my arms. I tighten my hold around her, squeezing her body against mine. “How did it go?” she asks, pulling back to look up at me. “What happened?”
With the pad of my thumb, I smooth out the lines of stress on her face, my eyes raking across her features. “It went just as I wanted it to. Everything is fine. I got everything we need.”
I feel the tension ebb away from her. She sinks into my body, no longer feeling stiff with tension. Her curves now fitting into me as they rightfully should.
“So you got it? You know who the agents are who are in contact with the force—the ones looking into you?”
Digging in my pocket, I pull out the small drive. I’m sure Clarence or Monte could’ve somehow found a way to dig deeper into the department’s system and break down their firewall to get this information, but this way, it was faster, and I gave them the unexpected. Having me in their space fucked with them. It was a taste of their own medicine.
“Thank god.” Sophia squeezes her arms around me again and I press a kiss against her lips before turning to Garrett.
“Monte and Clarence?”
“Already waiting.”
