Chapter 32 Sergio
SERGIO
The town square is packed when we arrive. Jessica tried to leave two days ago. Rosa Castellano showed up that same night with a folder full of Morrison family secrets. This morning, we use them.
I stand on the steps of the Largo Waters Municipal Building, watching the circus unfold below.
Three news vans from Portland stations. Two from Seattle.
A handful of local reporters with notepads and phone cameras.
Photographers jostling for position behind a makeshift barricade of sawhorses that Nacho requisitioned from the public works department.
Small town press conference. Regional story. National implications if the Morrisons keep pushing.
They're not going to keep pushing. Not after today.
I check my watch. Seven minutes until we start.
Carlos appears at my left shoulder, coffee cup in hand, sawdust still clinging to his jeans from whatever project he abandoned to be here. His blonde hair is uncombed. His flannel shirt is buttoned wrong. He looks like he rolled out of bed ten minutes ago.
He probably did.
"Hell of a turnout." He takes a sip of coffee and surveys the crowd. "Didn't know our little soap opera was this interesting."
"Sex sells." I keep my voice flat. "So does scandal."
"We're not selling sex."
"We're selling a story." I adjust the collar of my jacket. Navy blue. Pressed this morning. Professional. "The story of a woman who escaped a bad situation and found people who give a damn about her."
"Very romantic."
"It's the truth."
Nacho materializes on my right, uniform crisp, badge polished, expression carved from granite. He's been up since four, coordinating with his deputies, making sure the crowd stays manageable. Dark circles shadow his eyes, but his posture is military-straight.
"Perimeter's secure." His voice is low, meant only for us. "No sign of Callum or his parents."
"They'll be watching." I scan the crowd, the parked cars along the street, the windows of shops facing the square. "Somewhere."
"Let them watch." Carlos drains his coffee. "Let them see exactly what they're up against."
The municipal building looms behind us, red brick and white columns, built in 1923 when Largo Waters was a logging town with aspirations of grandeur.
The clock tower at the top shows three minutes to eight.
Inside, Mayor Patricia Delgado is probably pacing her office, wondering how her quiet little town ended up on the evening news.
Sorry, Patricia. Collateral damage.
Pedro climbs the steps from the parking lot, white coat exchanged for a charcoal sweater and dark slacks. He cleaned up well. Shaved the stubble he's been cultivating all week. Even combed his hair, though the cowlick at his crown refuses to cooperate.
"She's ready." He stops beside Nacho. "Nervous as hell, but ready."
"Where is she?"
"Inside. With Rosa Castellano." Pedro's jaw tightens. "The reporter wanted a few more minutes for background."
Rosa Castellano. Investigative journalist. Three years spent digging into the Morrison family's dirty laundry. She showed up yesterday with a folder full of sealed records and a personal vendetta that made her very useful.
Turns out Callum has a history. Previous girlfriends who tried to press charges. Allegations that got buried under settlement agreements and NDAs. A pattern of behavior that his family's money has been covering up for over a decade.
Jessica isn't his first victim. She's just the first one who fought back.
"Two minutes." I straighten my shoulders. "Positions."
My brothers spread out behind me. Carlos on the left, casual but alert. Nacho on the right, badge visible, authority radiating off him in waves. Pedro slightly behind, arms crossed, the concerned medical professional ready to discuss his patient's wellbeing if anyone asks inappropriate questions.
The front door of the municipal building opens.
Jessica steps out.
My chest tightens.
She's wearing a dress I've never seen before.
Deep green wool that hugs her curves and falls to her knees.
Brown boots with low heels. A cream-colored coat that Carlos bought her last week, though she doesn't know that.
Her blonde hair is pulled back in a simple twist, a few strands escaping to frame her face.
She looks beautiful. She looks terrified.
Rosa Castellano follows close behind, with her tablet in hand. Mid-forties. Sharp features. Grey streaks in her black hair that she hasn't bothered to cover. She's wearing a red blazer that stands out against the muted colors of the crowd, a deliberate choice. She wants to be seen.
Jessica's eyes find mine. Wide. Uncertain.
I hold her gaze. Give her a single nod.
You've got this. We've got you.
She takes a breath. Squares her shoulders. Moves to stand beside me on the steps.
"Ready?" My voice is low, meant only for her.
"No." Her hand finds mine, fingers cold despite her coat. "But let's do it anyway."
I squeeze her hand once. Then release it and step forward to the microphone that Nacho's deputy set up an hour ago.
The crowd goes quiet.
Cameras flash. Recording lights blink red. Somewhere in the back, a baby starts crying and is quickly hushed.
"Good morning." My voice carries across the square, amplified by speakers that whine with feedback for a second before settling. "My name is Sergio Negrorio. I'm here on behalf of my family to make a statement regarding the recent media coverage of Ms. Jessica Delacroix."
I pause. Let the silence stretch. Let them lean in.
"Three weeks ago, Ms. Delacroix arrived at our home seeking refuge from an abusive relationship. We provided that refuge. We will continue to provide it for as long as she needs."
A murmur ripples through the crowd. Reporters scribble notes. Cameras zoom in.
"The stories currently circulating about Ms. Delacroix are false. They were planted by her former fiancé, Callum, in an attempt to discredit her and avoid accountability for his own behavior."
I let that sink in. Watch the reporters exchange glances.
"Mr. Morrison has a documented history of harassment and intimidation toward romantic partners. Multiple women have filed complaints against him over the past decade. Those complaints were suppressed through financial settlements and legal threats by the Morrison family."
Rosa Castellano steps forward, tablet raised.
"I have documentation of three previous allegations against Callum Morrison." Her voice is clear, practiced. "Sealed records that were obtained through legitimate journalistic investigation. Two of the women involved have agreed to speak on the record about their experiences."
The murmur becomes a roar. Questions start flying.
"Mr. Negrorio, are you confirming a romantic relationship with Ms. Delacroix?"
"What evidence do you have of these prior allegations?"
"Is the Morrison family aware of these claims?"
"Will Ms. Delacroix be pursuing legal action?"
I raise my hand. The crowd quiets.
"Ms. Delacroix's personal life is not the subject of this press conference.
Her safety is." I let my gaze sweep across the assembled reporters.
"What I will say is this: Jessica Delacroix is under the protection of the Negrorio pack.
Any further harassment, whether from media outlets, online commentators, or representatives of the Morrison family, will be met with immediate legal action. "
I pause. Let the weight of the words settle.
"We have retained legal counsel. We have documentation of defamatory statements. And we will not hesitate to pursue every available remedy against anyone who continues to spread lies about a woman whose only crime was walking away from a man who didn't deserve her."
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
I step back from the microphone.
Jessica is staring at me. Her eyes are wet. Her lips are parted. She looks like she's forgotten how to breathe.
I extend my hand to her.
She takes it.
I pull her forward, positioning her beside me at the microphone. My arm wraps around her waist. Possessive. Protective. Making a statement without saying a word.
She's ours now. Not his.
The cameras go wild.
Rosa Castellano steps up again to handle the questions. She's good at this. Professional. Deflecting personal inquiries, redirecting to the documented evidence, keeping the focus on Callum's pattern of behavior rather than Jessica's current living situation.
I tune out the noise. Focus on the woman at my side.
"You okay?" I murmur against her ear.
"I think so." Her voice shakes. "Did you just publicly claim me in front of regional news media?"
"Yes."
"That's going to make things complicated."
"I know."
"People are going to talk."
"Let them."
She turns her head to look at me. Her hazel eyes are swimming with tears that haven't fallen yet.
"Thank you." The words come out barely audible.
"Don't thank me." I tighten my arm around her waist. "This is what pack does."
The press conference continues for another twenty minutes.
Rosa fields questions about the Morrison family's legal response, about the sealed records, about the other women who've agreed to come forward.
Nacho answers queries about the grocery store incident, confirming that video footage exists, declining to discuss ongoing investigations.
Carlos and Pedro flank us, silent but present. A united front. Four brothers standing behind one woman.
When it's finally over, when the reporters start packing up their equipment and the crowd begins to disperse, I guide Jessica back inside the municipal building. Away from the cameras. Away from the noise.
The interior is cool and quiet. Marble floors. High ceilings. The smell of old paper and floor polish. Mayor Delgado's assistant gives us a nervous nod as we pass her desk.
I find an empty conference room and pull Jessica inside. Close the door. Lock it.
She's trembling.
"Breathe." I take her face in my hands. "It's over. You did good."