Chapter 37
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Knox, Liam, and Luke walked into the conference room where Asher and Jessica had set up, drawing his eyes from the screen.
“You called the guys?” Asher glanced at Jessica from across the table.
“Of course.” She shifted her dark-rimmed glasses to the bridge of her nose and looked back at her laptop.
“We’ve got your back, man.” Knox sat next to Jessica. “Owen’s stuck in D.C., but Echo’s en route.”
“I, uh—” He didn’t know what to say. He’d kept this part of his life from his team for a reason, and now here they were, being roped into his past.
“There aren’t many cameras outside Angelo’s club,” Jessica began. “I have to spread the search area a bit wider during the time of death.”
“You could’ve told us about Angelo. About your past,” Liam said in a low voice as he positioned himself next to Knox.
Asher placed his hands in prayer position beneath his chin, struggling to find the words to say. It was never easy to lay the truth out. “It’s complicated” was all he managed.
Liam slowly nodded. “No witnesses came forward?”
“None,” she said with a shake of the head.
“Most people at the fight club weren’t exactly eager to talk about being there,” Asher noted in a glib tone.
“If the NYPD did snag any statements, they’re not uploading them into their systems for me to find,” she added. “They’d want to protect a witness from retaliation, especially if this is gang-related.”
“But he got out of all of that.” Asher looked at the images of all the known gang members from Angelo’s part of town in the file Jessica had miraculously pulled together in the last twelve hours.
Jessica grabbed her tablet and pointed at the screen. “This is Zander Jameson.” She handed the tablet to her brother. “He runs a small Irish crew in Hell’s Kitchen. He’s known for throwing some illegal fights as well.”
“What makes you think he’s a suspect?” Luke asked, speaking for the first time, and Asher wondered what the hell he was thinking.
Had Jessica told him about Egon? Or how yesterday he’d been hell-bent on finding the killer to put him six feet under himself?
“Sarah and Angelo were at the club we were all at on Valentine’s Day,” she explained. “And I saw Zander arguing with Angelo that night. I pulled his image from the CCTV footage and ran it through my program to get a name.”
Valentine’s Day. The day his dad had been arrested, and now this. His stomach lurched at the memory of his father’s arrest. His mother’s homemade pasta all over the floor. The trail of marinara sauce spreading throughout his home as officers tossed the place.
“Zander was arrested for murdering two teenagers last year,” Luke said while scrolling through the details on the tablet. “He really got off on a techni-fucking-cality?”
Asher’s cheeks filled with air as he thought about the possibility Zander had murdered Angelo. He didn’t know the guy, or why he’d want Angelo dead, but one thing was for certain—he sure as hell wouldn’t get away with it.
“I think there’s someone who might know who did this,” he said as the realization hit him.
“Who?” Jessica asked as Luke handed her back the tablet.
Asher dragged a palm down his face and blew out a hard breath. “My father.”
Asher had memorized his dad’s eight-digit prison ID a long time ago, even though he’d never used it. His father had sent him letter after letter, and each envelope had the same number attached to it on the return address.
He’d never opened the mail, but he used to stare at the envelopes before heading to the fight club. It had helped provoke and fuel his rage before entering the ring.
He wasn’t sure if the letters had stopped coming to his mom’s place during his time in the Navy; his mom had known better than to bring his dad up during his deployments.
He’d been seventeen when his dad had gone to prison. Had twenty years really gone by without a word passing between them?
Hell, he’d been out of his life for longer than he’d ever been in it.
“You’re already on the approved visitor list,” the guard said when he entered the building.
He’d nearly expected to be turned away, assuming he’d need preapproval to come, but apparently, his father had hoped he’d show some day.
A flicker of pain grew in his chest, and he rubbed at his pec muscles while he filled out the paperwork before turning it in with his ID.
After fifteen minutes of waiting, he was escorted with nineteen other people through two security checks, before entering an expansive room filled with rows of chairs. Vending machines took up one of the walls.
It wasn’t what he’d expected, but then again, the movies weren’t always the best at depicting reality with respect to his own line of work.
“Over there.” A guard pointed to a blue chair, the uncomfortable kind he remembered from grade school. “He’ll be out soon.”
He anxiously rubbed his hands up and down his denim-clad thighs as he scanned the faces of the other visitors waiting in the room.
When two guards opened a door near the security desk, his heart damn near exploded, as if he’d been hit with a bullet. Twenty men, all dressed in khaki from head to toe, entered the room.
He slowly stood at the sight of his father at the back of the group. His black hair had turned silver. His once tan skin was now weathered with age.
As he moved closer, his deep-set eyes thinned.
“Son,” he mouthed on approach, and Asher sat back down, not able to hug him or even shake his hand.
His dad slowly occupied the seat across from him, but Asher couldn’t bring himself to look into his eyes.
Twenty fucking years—gone.
And he wasn’t sure who to blame.
“What are you doing here?”
He leaned forward and pressed his elbows to his thighs, his fingertips rubbing at his forehead.
“Is Sarah okay? Your mom?”
“No.” His spine went erect as he found his father’s eyes. “But I’m betting you know what happened. No way does Angelo Moretti die and you not hear about it.” The muscles in his arms tensed, along with his jaw.
His father’s aged hands went to his thighs, and he gripped his khaki-covered legs. “Yeah, and I know the son of a bitch almost killed your sister. Hell, she may have been the original target.”
His heartbeat escalated, and he edged to the end of the chair, on the verge of standing. “What do you mean? Who did this?”
“It’s being taken care of; you don’t need to get yourself involved.” His dad crossed his ankle over his knee and observed Asher.
Asher looked around the room as it became more crowded, buzzing with conversation. No one was close enough to them for now, though. “What are you talking about?”
“Angelo gave up the life.”
“Yeah, I know,” he quickly replied, anxious to hear the things he didn’t know.
“Not everyone was happy about that. When Angelo went legit, he began to draw the attention of more people. His fight club became more popular. Hell, word was the UFC was taking notice.” He stroked his graying beard.
“An Irish thug took a hit on his business because of it, and he blamed Angelo for stealing his crowd.”
“Zander Jameson?”
His dad’s eyes widened. How was it possible his father knew so much while being locked up? Then again, he interacted with criminals on a daily basis through the revolving door of the prison. “So, you’ve heard of him.”
“He was arguing with Angelo at a club on . . .” He couldn’t get himself to utter the word without taking a damn pause. “Valentine’s Day.”
His father’s brows drew inward, and he sat farther back in the blue chair, shifting uncomfortably. “Angelo told his father Zander had threatened to hurt Sarah.”
Fuck. “Why didn’t he stop seeing her, then? Why the hell didn’t he protect her?” His veins burned, anger reigniting inside him.
“You know the Morettis. They don’t back down from a fight.” He shook his head. “The Jamesons are done. You can count on that.”
“Angelo’s dad ordered a hit?” This was what he’d wanted, wasn’t it? To have the man responsible pay? But . . .
“Let’s talk about you.” He cocked his head. “My boy’s a Navy SEAL. Did your mother tell you how proud of you I am?”
He bit down on his back teeth. “Let’s maybe not talk about that in a room full of criminals,” he seethed, catching his eyes.
“Even criminals are thankful for the military.”
“Sure,” he grumbled and roped a hand around the back of his neck, an edginess buzzing up his spine.
“I guess it’s a good thing your mom met Bill, or maybe you’d be right where Angelo is now.” He paused. “Of course, what you do is probably not all that safe, but if you’re going to go out of this world, I couldn’t think of a better way.”
“What?” Who the hell are you? He wanted to stand, to pace—but he figured the guards wouldn’t be in favor of that, so he kept his boots grounded to the floor.
Asher closed his eyes, unable to view his dad. Worried he’d see a reflection of himself in those brown eyes.
“I’m sorry, Son. I’m sorry I screwed up so bad.”
“I shouldn’t be here.” But . . . he remained sitting.
“I’m glad you are, though.”
He gulped and took a breath to calm his nerves.
“I wanted to kill whoever hurt Sarah, who killed Angelo.” He forced his eyes onto his dad, needing to know if he was, in fact, the same man as him.
It was the other reason why he’d come, but he hadn’t known that until this moment.
“I’ve lost count of how many people I’ve killed over the years.
” His stomach knotted at his words. “So, I think I would’ve done it, but—”
“Nobody fucks with family,” his dad interrupted. “But you’re not me. You’re not Angelo’s dad. So, no, Son, you wouldn’t have done it.”
Asher shifted so his back touched the seat now, and he crossed his arms. “I am capable of . . .” He didn’t know if he could voice the truth aloud, though. “I did something else.” He swallowed. “I killed someone without orders.” The surrounding chatter absorbed his words.
“I’m guessing that person hurt someone you care about? Someone you love, maybe?”
What’d his father know about love? “Maybe I should go.”
“Please,” he said while holding a palm in the air, “don’t.”
Asher rubbed at his beard, trying to make sense of the fact he was truly sitting across from a man he’d written off twenty years ago.
Jessica. His mind blew to images of her, to the woman who’d been like a reset button in his life, bringing new meaning to everything.
She’d forgiven Samir. Forgiven him for Egon. Could he forgive his father?
“Call off the hit.” His words—his request—took him by surprise.
“What?” His dad’s head jerked back.
“I’ll make sure Zander ends up behind bars. You can count on that.”
“That won’t be enough for Moretti. You know that. Zander could end up back on the streets like he did last time he was arrested.”
Asher rolled his shoulders back. “Or he could end up in here. With you. With Mr. Moretti.”
“So, you are okay with him dying?” He lifted a brow.
“It’s not up to me. It’s up to the courts,” he said, knowing deep in his gut he’d made a mistake back in Austria by taking Egon’s life. And it was a mistake he wasn’t entirely sure he could come back from, even with Jessica’s forgiveness.
“I guess . . . we’ll see if justice prevails then,” his dad slowly said.