On Best Behavior (C3)

by Jennifer Lane

  Enzo’s jaw tightened.

  “But you didn’t. You got him to a hospital, and they arrested you there.”

  “Thanks for the recap,” he sneered.

  She ignored his hostility. “My world collapsed when I discovered Logan had stored guns and money in my office. But I had to take responsibility for my mistakes, and I went to prison, just like you.” She had his attention. “I never thought I’d recover from the shame. I never thought I’d live a good life again. But then I met Grant.”

  Tears welled in her eyes again. “You and Mrs. Barberi created two amazing sons—do you know that?”

  “I do know that.”

  His response surprised her. Then why did you hurt them so much? she wanted to yell.

  Enzo looked down at his hands, and she watched him massage his wrists. This was probably the first time he hadn’t been cuffed or chained when he was out of his cell. “Those boys…they’re the only thing I did right in my life.” When he looked back up at her, his gaze was cold. “And now Logan’s dead.”

  “That doesn’t mean Grant has to die too!” His eyes widened, and she knew she’d hit a nerve. “You can still have one of your sons alive. You could work on your relationship with him.”

  He shook his head. “My son wants nothing to do with me.”

  “That’s not true. What do you think that letter he read to you was for?”

  “You know about that damn letter?”

  Sophie nodded. “Our jerk PO made Grant and me attend couples counseling. I heard all about the letter. And I heard about how much Grant wants your approval—it would mean everything to him.”

  Enzo folded his arms across his chest. “Grant never visited me in here once in twenty years.”

  “And what have you done for him?” she challenged. “Have you ever written him a letter? Have you ever thanked your wife’s brother for raising him? Did you ever try to take care of Grant when he came to Gurnee, scared out of his mind? Or did you feed him to the wolves when he wouldn’t renounce the one father who’d showed him some kindness?”

  Enzo popped out of his chair and drilled his index finger on the table to emphasize every shouted word. “He. Betrayed. Me!”

  Keep breathing, she told herself. She prayed Jerry and the CO wouldn’t crash the room. She bet Marilyn was holding them off. “You’re fucking pissed off at Grant.”

  “Damn right I am!” His chest heaved.

  “You’re furious. You believe he took away your freedom.”

  “He did!” He began to pace.

  For some reason she didn’t feel scared. Maybe because she’d witnessed explosions like this from both his sons, and they’d never hurt her—once she’d talked them down, at least. “Mr. Barberi? It’s fine to be angry, but I’m concerned they’ll stop this meeting if you don’t sit down. Would you please sit, sir?”

  He blanched and looked at her as if she’d just told him she was an alien love child. But he did sit.

  She exhaled. “You look like your anger has come down a notch.”

  “What do you care?”

  She met his eyes. “You’re my future father-in-law. You’re important to Grant, and you’re important to me.”

  His fingers drummed on the table, which reminded her of Grant tapping his thigh. He breathed out through his nose as he shook his head. “This always happens.”

  “What happens, Mr. Barberi?”

  “I fly off the handle then I feel like a fucking idiot.” He continued to tap a random rhythm on the table. “I’m not stupid. I know I’m the one who took my freedom away. I’m the one who fucked up that night. Grant had nothing to do with it.”

  She resisted the urge to stand up and cheer. They were getting somewhere! “But you did two things right that night at Richie Fanocelli’s.”

  He looked at her, his face a question.

  “You took Carlo to the hospital, and you didn’t kill Fanocelli when you had the chance.”

  “Big mistake.” He shook his head. Silence stretched between them. “Now that I know what it feels like to have a son murdered, I bet Fanocelli wishes I’d killed him.”

  “But you didn’t. You know what that’s called, Mr. Barberi? That’s called empathy. You knew how awful Fanocelli felt after his son was shot. That’s why I haven’t given up on you.”

  He grunted. His fists clenched with the caged energy of a predator.

  “Bet you’d love a drink right now, huh?”

  His eyes blazed.

  “Yes, I know about that too. It doesn’t surprise me you had a drinking problem.”

  He laced his arms across his chest, the Logan-like smirk returning. “And why is that?”

  “A lot of people develop an addiction when they’re battling PTSD.”

  “What the fuck is that?”

  “Post-traumatic stress disorder. When you’re re-experiencing a trauma through flashbacks or nightmares, and feeling on edge all the time, sometimes you turn to alcohol to numb out.”

  A smug grin tugged at his mouth. “So you’re diagnosing me now? What’s this supposed trauma I had? My ice cream scoop dropping off the cone when I was a toddler?”

  “I apologize, Mr. Barberi. I’ve never met you before, and it’s not right of me to throw out diagnoses like that. It’s even more inappropriate because I lost my license when I went to prison.” She sighed. “All I know is what Grant told our psychologist—about the time he made you a sandwich when he was seven. You were drunk, and you told Grant a story of when you were his age. Your father had you bring sandwiches to him and his associates in the basement.”

  Enzo showed no flash of recognition, and she wondered if he’d been blackout drunk when he’d told Grant the story. She also wondered if he’d buried the memory so deep he wasn’t aware of it. “When you gave your dad the sandwiches, there was a man tied to a chair.”

  Enzo froze.

  “Mr. Barberi, are you breathing? Mr. Barberi?”

  He took a sharp breath.

  “I want you to keep breathing as I tell you the rest of the story, okay?”

  “Don’t,” he said in a strangled voice.

  “Avoidance of anything associated with the trauma is another symptom of PTSD. It’s okay—this happened in the past. This story will be over soon.” She swallowed. Trust it. “The man tied to the chair looked really scared, and you wanted to get out of there, but your dad made you stay.”

  He stared straight ahead. “Stop,” he choked out.

  She ignored his plea. I have to do this to save Grant. “Your dad handed you a gun, and he told you to shoot the man.” His glassy eyes looked far away. “You didn’t want to, but your dad threatened to beat you with his belt. So you took the gun, you pointed it at the man…”

  Enzo flinched, like he felt the gun go off in his hands. “No.” His voice shook.

  “Please breathe, Mr. Barberi. Breathe.”

  He flinched again, then glowered at her.

  “You’re okay—we’re here at eight twenty-three p.m. at Gurnee State Penitentiary, on Friday, March seventh. You’re an adult. Can you look around you and see the stone walls? Hear the hum of the fluorescent lighting?”

  “Fuck!” he roared, jumping out of his chair to pace the floor again. “What the fuck are you trying to do to me?” His breathing was so erratic that he had trouble getting the words out. “Stay out of my head!”

  She sat quietly in her chair as he grabbed his head with both hands. An internal war played out before her. The battle had begun sixty years ago, and he was still fighting today. He gripped the chair with trembling hands and emitted a guttural cry. She looked at the one-way mirror and mouthed, It’s okay.

  “Why did you tell me that fucking story?” He glared at her.

  She reminded herself to breathe. “You asked me what trauma you experienced as a child. Being forced to kill a man…that’s the only trauma I know about, but I’m sure there were other incidents of abuse.”

  “Abuse?” he scoffed as he pressed his hands on the table
and leaned forward. “My dad was teaching me the business.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Of course it was abuse. It’s not okay to force your child to shoot another human being!”

  “No.” He shook his head. “He had to be hard on me. I-I-I was weak—I was stupid. It took a long time to get anything through my thick skull. He had to drum it into me.”

  Her heart ached. “Those are excuses perpetrated by an abuser, Mr. Barberi…nothing more. Your father switched the blame from him to you, but that’s not fair because it wasn’t your fault—you were only a child. What your father did was wrong. He hurt you.”

  “No.” His voice held less conviction this time. “He had to toughen me up.”

  “No!” She waited until he looked at her to continue. “It wasn’t your fault! Of course you took the gun—you’d have been beaten if you hadn’t. Any child would’ve done the same thing. He was your father, and you wanted to please him. Being forced to kill a man at the tender age of seven…it would’ve destroyed any child. The guilt that you’ve endured your whole life since that day? Your father hurt you deeply. It wasn’t your fault.”

  He stared at her for what felt like five minutes. With the deep crease on his forehead and the confusion swirling in the thick oil of his eyes, she assumed he was replaying that childhood moment, perhaps integrating this new perspective…that Enzo Barberi wasn’t such a horrible person, he wasn’t unredeemable.

  He finally slid into the seat across from her. “Did that…really happen? Did my dad force a gun in my hands?”

  She stroked her chin. “I don’t know for sure. From your reaction, and Grant’s reaction, it seems likely, though.”

  “Did I…” His voice grew softer. “Did I kill that guy?”

  “I don’t know that either. I do know it wasn’t your fault—you were just a child. But that’s not the point now.”

  He threw his hands in the air. “Then what is the fucking point?”

  “The point is that you are not an evil man!” she shouted. “Everything you’ve done—the alcoholism, the child abuse, the crime—it’s all understandable. It’s not excusable, but it’s understandable. You parented like your father showed you. You didn’t know there was a different choice.”

  “There was no choice! I had to take care of my family. They needed me. Look what’s happened since I’ve been stuck in here. My family! Fucking destroyed!”

  “There is a choice now,” Sophie said. “There’s a choice involving your family.” She stared into those deep eyes. “Choose good…Choose love. Don’t let your father’s actions keep destroying you. Tell me how to help Grant.”

  He slouched in the chair, no longer possessing the gravitas of a mafia don. “I already told you I don’t know where Grant is.”

  “Mr. Barberi.” She leaned forward and grasped his hands. “I love Grant…so much. I want to marry him. Please. I know you can help us. You’re the leader of this family, and you can do this. It’s not too late.”

  He held her gaze for a moment before pulling his hands away. “Fuck.” He stared at the mirror on the far wall. Her heartbeat thrummed—each passing second of silence like a thread of Grant’s life unraveling, her connection to him more and more distant. Maybe it was too late for Grant’s father. Maybe he’d been in prison too long to ever feel love or empathy again.

  Finally he turned back to her. “Okay.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I was approached tonight after chow. The Russians want money or they’ll kill Grant.”

  Jesus. Chills bloomed up her spine, and she snuck a glance at the mirror. “I thought visiting hours ended a while ago.”

  He didn’t respond. Oh. The Russians had contacts in the prison.

  “But even if I wanted to buy his freedom, I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t have that kind of money anymore.”

  Her shoulders slumped, but then she sat up. “Wait—my father will put up the money.”

  “Your old man’s got two million dollars?”

  “Um…”

  There was the sound of a key in the lock, and Marilyn burst in the door, quickly shutting it behind her. “Hello, Mr. Barberi.”

  She grunted and gripped the doorknob. Sophie realized someone else was trying to get into the room. Frantic knocking ensued, and Marilyn rolled her eyes, then wrenched open the door. “Officers,” she hissed at Jerry and the CO, “let the women handle it.” She closed the door in their faces and sat next to Sophie.

  “Mr. Barberi, thank you so much for meeting with us. You remember I’m Detective Marilyn Fox, Chicago PD?”

  Sophie caught the suspicion in Enzo’s eyes. “She’s the detective who found Logan’s body,” she said. “She’s helped Grant and me so much.”

  Marilyn leaned in. “Mr. Barberi, I understand there wasn’t any love lost between your family and the Russians. Do you want to destroy their organization?”

  He eyed her, his face pale and tired. “I don’t care what happens to them.” His eyes locked on Sophie’s. “I just want to get my son back.”

  Thank you, she mouthed. She smiled at him as tears spilled down her cheeks.

  24. Congest

  “WHY HAVEN’T THEY CALLED?” Ben cried. He ran his fingers through his mess of scruffy brown hair.

  Sophie opened her mouth to formulate a response, but Marilyn beat her to it, patting his shoulder. “Agent Bounter will call soon. It’s hard to wait, I know.”

  The understatement of the year. Sophie glanced around the interrogation room. Everyone seemed as anxious as Ben. Next to him, at the head of the table, his mother, Ashley, stared down at her lap, guilt emanating off of her. Across the table, Marilyn fidgeted constantly, and Jerry sat still as a stone. Her father sat next to her, but he kept his back to her as he talked with about the tenth construction contractor he’d called, pumping each man for information about the Russians. He again seemed to be coming up empty. Agent Thompson stood by the wall with a helpless expression, frowning occasionally at his cell phone, which remained silent in his hand.

  And she knew she wore her emotions on her face as well. She wasn’t just anxious; she was terrified.

  Ben turned to her, the circles under his eyes now darker and hollowed. “Grandpa said he’d talk to the guy at Gurnee tonight, right? Pretend he wanted to pay to get Uncle Grant back?”

  “Yes, Ben.” He’d asked that question several times, but she couldn’t be irritated. She was barely holding it together. What must this wait be like for a teenager?

  “Mr. Barberi did speak with another prisoner a couple of hours ago,” Marilyn said. “As far as we know, the other prisoner set up an exchange between the Russians and someone they think is the Barberi representative—but will actually be thirty FBI agents.”

  “But how’d the prisoner get word to the Russians?” Ben wondered. “They’re not allowed to make phone calls this late, right?”

  “We’re guessing the other prisoner paid off a CO to call the Russians for him. Like I said, the place is corrupt.” Marilyn’s eyes blazed.

  “They better catch that dirty guard, whoever he is,” Jerry grumbled.

  “They will.” She patted his hand absently.

  Ben’s fingertips drummed a dirge on the table.

  “How ’bout you lay down in that corner?” Sophie suggested. “I’m guessing you didn’t get any sleep last night. You look exhausted.”

  “As if I could sleep right now!”

  Ashley looked up, mascara streaks down her face. “Ben, honey, Sophie’s right. You should get some sleep. Or how about some food?” She pointed to the plate of untouched bagels on the table.

  “Jesus, Mom! You look like a freaking raccoon. Stop crying!”

  Ashley swiped at her cheeks.

  “Agent Thompson, can you get some tissues?” Sophie asked. She worried he would find that task beneath him, but he actually looked relieved as he bolted out of the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Ashley murmured. She sniffed. “I’m so sorry
for bringing that awful man into our lives, Benji.”

  He looked away. “I already told you it’s not your fault.”

  “Yes it is!” She was about to say more when Agent Thompson returned and handed her a box of tissues. She plucked a few and scrubbed her cheeks. “I never should’ve trusted Hans.” She looked down. “I should’ve known he wasn’t interested in me.” She dabbed under her eyes, which had filled with tears again.

  “Ashley…” Sophie searched for the right words. “You’re a beautiful woman with a beautiful heart. Don’t give up.”

  She cried harder.

  “I know how frightening it is to trust again.” Sophie felt her father’s stare and glanced over to find he was off his phone. She swallowed. “It’s so uncomfortable. But you’ll find love with a good man. You deserve more love in your life.”

  “How can you say that?” she asked. “After I risked Ben’s life by being so stupid? What if Grant dies? It’ll be my fault!”

  Sophie’s heart hammered. Grant wouldn’t die…Grant couldn’t die. She took a deep breath. “Grant was aware of the risks of going undercover. But he felt he had to do it, to honor his mother’s memory. He loved his mother, and he didn’t want the Mafia hurting anyone like her again.” She gestured to Ashley’s son. “Ben’s like his uncle that way. Of course he didn’t say anything about the threat to Grant’s life, because he was scared they’d kill you. He loves you.”

  Ashley turned to Ben. “I love you so much. I’m gonna be a better mom to you, okay?” She reached out, and Sophie exhaled when Ben accepted her hug.

  You’re already a better mom, Ashley.

  Her father patted her hand and smiled at her. “I’m glad you took the risk to trust again, Soph.”

  Her upper lip quivered. “Me too, Dad.” She blinked away her tears. “Do you…do you think Grant will be okay?”

  “I do.” He held her hand. “Grant’s a fighter. He certainly fought me hard.” She managed to smile at his grumpy tone. “He fought for you.”