ANZO
The interrogation doesn’t last long, I know how it goes. Obviously, I refuse to give a statement. They read me my rights, and the FBI agent looks smug as hell, borderline arrogant, honestly. No professionalism whatsoever. They don’t bother to hide their pathetically triumphant looks.
The second we sit down, they shove a goddamn tablet in front of me and hit play.
And there it is: the recording. My voice.
Talking with the strike team. Every single word, clear as day.
My face, plain on screen. Every detail of the plan, every instruction I gave, is all there now.
Frozen in time. Immortalized for my demise.
I’m screwed. No way around it.
After all these years of playing it safe, I let myself go full throttle. Went all in, like Moon advised. I believed in him.
And what now? Looks like I lost.
Guess I’ve got no choice but to live with the consequences. As always.
Right now, the only thing I can do is demand my lawyer, and that’s exactly what I do. Not that they seem too troubled by it. Those boastful little grins on their faces… They’re so thrilled.
Hitting the heart of a major criminal organization must feel like Christmas came early.
What I can’t stop thinking about is, who the hell recorded that conversation?
The angle doesn’t look familiar. I know where every camera is in the compound, but this one?
It’s way lower. Not eye level. Almost like someone hid the camera inside a damn flowerpot on the windowsill.
Or maybe in the lower edge of a painting’s frame?
It was deliberate, planted for only one purpose. To set me up. Someone wanted to take me down. And he succeeded.
I’d congratulate the bastard if I could, right before I put a bullet in his skull.
But you know what pisses me off the most?
Not just that the plan failed, but that it failed in the one way that mattered to me. Sun didn’t heal me. That little shit, Moon, was wrong.
It looks like Sun wasn’t the answer after all.
And I fell for the promise of it. Like an idiot.
Trusted that little traitor. Wherever he is now, I hope his life’s miserable.
That’s what you get for relying on all those so-called supernatural gifts.
People won’t shut up about them in our world, but funny how none of those gifted freaks ever end up working for law enforcement.
You know why? Because you simply can’t trust those bastards. Everybody knows it. But me? I had to learn the hard way.
An FBI agent walks me out of the interrogation room.
It’s not just cuffs around my wrists, they’ve got shackles on my ankles too. Like they’re scared I might somehow pull off a jailbreak. Not taking any chances, apparently.
The fed’s an omega, quite tall and jacked, and clearly feeling himself. As he leads me down the hall, he’s not exactly gentle, giving me little shoves at the corners like I’m some busted shopping cart. His smug-ass face radiates self-satisfaction, bordering on straight-up arrogance.
I shoot him a sideways glare.
"Preening much? You fuckers think you’ve got me, huh? Newsflash, this shit ain’t over." I only say it to wipe that fucking grin off his face. Deep down, I know I’m screwed.
He lets out a barking cackle. The dumbass can’t even keep it together. He's practically dripping with contentment.
"Shut your damn trap, Ferro. We’ve never had a case like this before, and I don’t think I’m breaking protocol by saying you really pissed your little crime fam off. If you think one person dropped dirt on you, think again."
My jaw clenches. I force myself not to react, not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me crack.
But the fucker clearly notices, because he snorts and chortles even harder. The prick’s enjoying this so much he’s forgetting he’s supposed to be a professional.
He leans in a little, eyes gleaming.
"A few people. At the same fucking time. Independently! Damn, you must’ve been so loved. Maybe you should sign up for a prison course, something like ‘How to Inspire Loyalty in Your Crew.’ Sounds like you could use it."
And he wheezes out another smug little titter like a complete moron.
Furious, disgusted, I don’t say shit. I keep walking, but inside I’m boiling. Fucking traitors.
Okay, fine, maybe planting explosive spinal implants in them with a bonus electro-shock function wasn’t exactly the path to deep emotional trust, but a few ? Really? I swear to Fate, I’m cutting those scumbags out of my will.
But then it dawns on me. If I don’t know exactly who did it, my lawyers might hit a wall.
And hell, my nephews are not the only suspects. Vincenzo, Giovanni, and Enrico? They’ve been secretly pissed at me ever since I dwindled their branch’s share of the Ferro family business. Could be them too.
Seething with cold rage, I follow the chuckling bastard down the hall.
We walk down a long hallway toward the temporary holding block. But first, we stop at a control desk. The agent leans in, whispers something to the officer on duty. I can’t hear it, but I do catch the officer’s reply loud and clear:
"Cell S11."
"That’s not a single, is it?" the agent asks, double-checking.
The officer narrows his eyes slightly.
"We’ve got twenty-six of the Ferros’ guys in custody. I’m not a miracle worker. I can’t conjure up singles for everyone."
I smirk. The agent looks visibly annoyed, maybe even irritated. Was your perfect day ruined? Bastard.
The fed probably thinks the officer’s in my pocket, maybe even believes he’s placing someone in there to help me out or pass a message.
"He really should be in a single. This is Anzo fucking Ferro," the agent snaps, once again losing all pretense of professionalism. His jaw clenches.
They caught a capo, and they don’t have a damn single cell for me. I almost want to cackle like he did before.
The officer puffs up.
"Right now, we’ve got four guys in two-man cells. You want me to cram in a fifth? That’s a disaster waiting to happen, Adams."
He leans over his monitor and checks something. "And the guy in S11’s got nothing to do with the mafia, so cool your jets."
"You’ll be personally responsible if anything happens," the agent growls, clearly burned from some past screw-up. But he’s not in charge here. The shift supervisor is. That’s how this works in jail.
The whole exchange is actually kind of entertaining. The agent’s desperation is rewarding. But hey, they bagged a bunch of our soldiers, and the holding area’s packed. Not my problem. I’ve got bigger ones.
One of the correctional officers materializes like a ghost and signals us forward. I walk in silence. I don’t care who I end up bunking with; I’m going away for years. I don’t get to be picky.
And there’s no way I’m contacting anyone on the outside right now. Way too risky.
If I end up stuck with some psycho who’s planning to use my ass for stress relief… oh well. Some shit’s unavoidable. Face harsh reality head-on, and mine’s always been brutal. Nothing new there.
We reach the holding cells. The officer unlocks one labeled S11.
Only now do they take off my cuffs. A hard shove between my shoulder blades, and I’m inside.
This is it.
My new reality starts now. I’m almost ready for it.
I glance around. The place looks like it used to be a single, but they’ve crammed in a bunk bed. On the bottom bunk, someone’s sitting with their back against the wall, knees pulled up. Face lost in shadow.
I take a deep breath.
Anyone involved in shady business thinks about this at least once, the day you slip up and end up behind bars. What will you do? What will others do to you?
Those thoughts hit everyone eventually. I’m no exception.
I’ve had more than a few vivid, fucked-up images of what might happen to me in prison, especially considering my scars.
But I’m not looking to start off on the wrong foot with whoever this guy is. I’m going to embrace my inmate life with a positive attitude. So I keep my voice calm and neutral.
"Hey," I say. "I’m Anzo."
I give a short, lazy flick of my hand, my version of a greeting. I’m expecting silence. Maybe a contemptuous grunt. I’ve never been in prison before, so I have no idea how inmates usually act around each other, though I’ve heard stories.
What’s the protocol when someone new shows up? Do they get put in their place right away?
But what I get instead surprises me.
"Hey. I’m Sun," says the figure from the shadows, his voice similarly calm, almost matching mine.
Sun?
I freeze in place.
A chill races down my spine.
A powerful one, so strong it makes me sway slightly and catch myself on the edge of the bunk. It’s like I’ve just taken a blow to the back of the head. Shock floods my system before I manage to force out a response, trying hard to keep my tone indifferent.
"Sun? That your name?"
It doesn’t really work. My surprise saturates my voice. It bleeds all over it.
"Why? Is it ugly?" he asks, dragging the words slightly.
"No. No, not at all." My head is spinning, my thoughts unraveling into pure chaos. What the hell is happening right now? I feel like Fate itself is sitting in this cell with me.
"Is that… a nickname?" I ask, quieter now.
"Nope."
"Just… a real name?" Disbelief overtakes me.
"If you insist on hearing my story, here it goes. It’s what my ever-absent douchebag of a father gave me.
All seven of his kids have names that start with S, after his own name, Sven.
Most of them from different omegas… but the damn S unites us.
Sage, Stone, Seth, Sirius, Soren, Salt. And me.
Sun Einarson. I bet he would’ve found it hilarious that my life’s been anything but sun shine and rainbows.
If the bastard was still breathing, that is.
" His tone is light and kind of carefree, like he doesn’t mind sharing this little family story.
I sit down beside him on the cot. I need to see this guy’s face.
Our eyes meet.
Wow.
He’s an alpha!