Chapter 9 Seven
Why did police stations all smell so weird?
Like canned air, nicotine, and…regret? Seven sat where Enzo had put him in a chair in the lobby of the precinct.
It wasn’t a grubby place with anemic lighting and people handcuffed to benches; it just looked like any other municipal building, except there were cops everywhere.
Seven hated cops.
Enzo had left him a bottle of water and a box of animal crackers like he was a toddler. He’d then said not to move until he came back for him. What did it say about Enzo that he had those things in his bag? Better question: what did it say about Seven that he followed his orders blindly?
He’d spent the last hour absently biting the heads off circus animals and sipping his overpriced glacier water, while having a staring contest with the officer behind the intake desk.
Every ninety seconds or so, the man would glance over at him, then stare pointedly at his shaking leg, like he thought he could telepathically get him to stop.
Nothing was going to make it stop. Seven could either bounce his leg or claw his skin off, and the former seemed like the slightly saner option of the two.
Time worked differently in this place, like a casino in reverse.
Every minute dripped by, making him feel like he’d grow roots if he sat for much longer.
What was happening back there? What was Enzo doing? Was his mother okay? What if she’d been hurt…or worse? He’d heard a million horror stories.
He shook the thought away.
Rationally, Seven knew what happened when someone was arrested.
The cops would have fingerprinted and photographed her before she’d even had a chance to make her phone call.
After she’d talked to Seven, she’d likely been stuck in a holding cell with a bunch of other women to wait for their attorneys.
Was she still there, or had they moved her and Enzo to one of those stripped down conference rooms where they could speak without fear of being recorded?
It was bullshit that Seven wasn’t allowed in with him. He worked at the same law firm. He should have been allowed in. Enzo said only one person could go in at a time. Rationally, he knew it made sense, but that didn’t make it any less infuriating.
Seven had no idea how they would pay for an attorney.
Enzo was helping out with the bail hearing, but there was no way the firm would let him take on his mother’s case.
Even if the firm did allow it, they couldn’t afford Enzo.
He charged a fifty thousand dollar retainer on his most basic cases and then an hourly fee of two grand.
It wasn’t that Enzo didn’t deserve it, just that Seven and his mom didn’t have that.
One hour of Enzo’s time was half their rent.
They’d just have to use a public defender.
And it wasn’t that public defenders were bad at their jobs, they just had heavy caseloads.
Whoever had set up his mother wouldn’t make this easy on them.
The cops clearly weren’t going to look any deeper than they already had.
They seemed pretty convinced they had their man. Or woman.
Whatever. They weren’t going to look for alternate suspects, but Enzo would.
He’d do anything to win. Anything. He wasn’t bound by the same code of ethics as most attorneys.
He didn’t mind doing bad things for a good reason.
He understood that what was right and what was legal sometimes wasn’t the same.
He’d have made sure his mother walked, no matter what.
Maybe he knew a public defender they could trust?
Seven sighed, aggressively biting the head off a lion, then munching thoughtfully. How did this happen? How had it even come to this? There was no way his father had somehow talked her into doing—
No, that was ridiculous. His mother might be crazy about Stan, but she wasn’t a criminal, not even for him.
This had to be a mistake. Nothing else made sense. Seven didn’t know much about accounting, but errors happened everywhere. This had to be some kind of fluke. A glitch.
“Seven!”
Seven’s head snapped up at the sound of his name, relief flooding his system as he saw Jericho and Freckles standing in the doorway of the police station. He didn’t even think about it. He just crossed the room and fell into Jericho’s arms, letting the older man crush him against him.
This was how a real dad behaved. Jericho was more of a dad to him than the man who’d contributed to his conception.
Jericho had fed him, protected him, taught him right from wrong.
Jericho had raised him right alongside Seven’s mother.
Had Enzo not immediately jumped into action, there was no doubt in his mind that Jericho and his father-in-law, Thomas Mulvaney, would have been there the moment Seven called.
“What the hell is going on, kid?” Jericho asked, his words displacing Seven’s hair. “Francesca called and said Neith was arrested? For what?”
How had Francesca found out? Had Enzo called her? Why? Not that Seven cared, but it seemed strange that Enzo would’ve called his mother about Seven’s mother, like they were family or something. It couldn’t have been just to get Jericho to Seven. Surely, Enzo had Jericho’s direct number. Didn’t he?
Seven felt like he was trapped in a nightmare.
“Embezzlement,” Seven whispered. “They claim she stole from her job. But she wouldn’t do that. There’s no way. There’s no way,” he said again with more conviction. “Right?”
“Of course not,” Freckles said. “Your mom is a good, hard-working pillar of the community. Enzo will have her out of here before nightfall.”
Some of the tension bled from Seven at the older man’s words. He wanted to believe that was true.
When Jericho had first met Atticus Mulvaney—now dubbed Freckles by anyone close to him—Seven and the other boys hadn’t really understood what Jericho saw in him.
Like what could a vigilante mechanic from the slums want with a prissy doctor who also happened to be the son of a billionaire?
Or vice versa? On paper, they made no sense.
It certainly wasn’t the money. Even now, Jericho still kept his garage open. Except now, he fixed cars pro bono.
But as they’d gotten to know Atticus, they realized he wasn’t unkind, just guarded.
He made Jericho insanely happy, and they’d even given Seven two little adopted brothers, Jett and Jagger.
Seven trusted Freckles as much as he did Jericho.
If Jericho hadn’t been available, Freckles would have been there solo.
They were his real family.
It was funny when people called Jericho a gold digger.
Freckles was far more generous than Jericho.
Freckles would have paid the bills of every one of Jericho’s boys if he’d let him.
But they’d all been raised to stand on their own two feet.
To work for what they wanted. They now teased Jericho a lot about how he lives in a penthouse in the fancy part of town, but truthfully, he’d earned every bit of luxury he had. Karmically, anyway.
A heavy hand settled on his shoulder, and Seven knew without looking that it was Jericho. Seven didn’t know how long he stood there, letting the older man comfort him, but he stayed there until he heard Jericho say, “Hey, man. What’s the word?”
Seven forced himself to step back, then turned to see Enzo standing there, expression grim. “Is it that bad?” he all but wailed.
“Relax, baby,” Enzo said, pulling Seven against him carefully, like he thought he might break. “I’ve got it under control.”
“What are we looking at?” Jericho asked over Seven’s head.
“It’s not good,” Enzo answered, absently rubbing Seven’s back. “I managed to have my mom call in a few favors and get Neith pushed to the front of the line so we can get her bailed out.”
“What are we talking?” Freckles asked.
Maybe Seven should have been offended that they were discussing things around him instead of with him, but he couldn’t really think straight at the moment. His rational thoughts had taken a vacation, leaving him with “I want my mom” playing on a loop in his head. He didn’t care how childish it was.
Enzo sighed. “They’re claiming that, over the last six months, Neith somehow managed to embezzle 1.3 million dollars from the company.”
“That’s fucking bullshit!” Seven shouted. “My mom didn’t steal anything.”
The officer at the desk shushed him with a scowl.
Seven gave him a nasty look in return. “Oh, my bad. I didn’t realize it was a fucking library.”
A guy sitting on a chair in the corner snickered at that, earning him a glare as well.
“Don’t piss me off, kid,” the officer snapped. “Or you’ll find yourself sitting next to your mother back there.”
It was on the tip of Seven’s tongue to tell the guy to go fuck himself, but Enzo just said, “Easy, baby. I can’t help your mom if I’m trying to bail you out of jail for disorderly conduct.” He squeezed the back of Seven’s neck in a way that made him want to purr.
“When’s the bail hearing?” Jericho asked.
“We got about twenty minutes to get across the street to courtroom sixteen. Judge Olivera. She’s usually pretty reasonable. It’s the ADA who’s kind of a twat. He thinks being an attorney is performance art or something.”
Freckles frowned. “Is there another way to get to the courthouse?”
Enzo stiffened. “Why?”
“Someone tipped off the press,” Jericho said, his disgust evident.
“The press? Why?” Seven asked, bewildered. “We’re not famous. Why would they care about this?”
Freckles sighed. “It could be anything. It’s a lot of money.
It’s a charity. Your dad is a notorious bookie and suspected murderer, and she’s one of his many baby mamas.
Or it could be that you are one of Jericho’s boys and he’s married to me, a Mulvaney.
It could be that your mom and Enzo’s mom are close enough to have been photographed together several times. ”