Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty Two
Vito
It’s been a week since I dropped Teresa off at her house.
Seven days.
Seven long, irritating, empty days in which I have not seen her once.
Not at her office. Not at my place. Not by accident, not on purpose, not in any stolen corner of the city where we could pretend the world had narrowed back down to just the two of us on an island in the middle of the Caribbean.
Nothing.
I’ve been irritated with it from the start.
Restless fits too. Pissed off. Off-balance. Every room in my apartment feels wrong, and I feel unsettled and itchy, like I’ve come back to a version of my life that doesn’t fit right anymore, and I’m supposed to act like it does.
I don’t know how Teresa feels about any of it.
That’s part of what gets under my skin.
Was she relieved to be back in her own house, back in her own bed, back in a life where I am not always there? Did she exhale the second I pulled away from the curb that first night and think, finally?
Did she want the distance? Prefer it? Need it?
I don’t know.
And because I don’t know, my head keeps filling the silence for me.
Roberto says it’s better this way. For now.
At least until after she gives her statement.
He was firm about that. Calm, legal, annoying in the way only Roberto can manage when he’s absolutely sure he’s right and wants the rest of us to behave accordingly.
No contact, he’d said. Not in person. Not direct. Not until the Bureau hears from her and whatever form this is going to take starts taking shape for real.
I hated it.
I still hate it.
But he wasn’t wrong.
That’s the problem with Roberto. Half the time, I want to punch him in the face, and the other half, I can’t because he’s the only person in the room making sense.
Apparently, she did it.
Apparently, she sat down with the FBI and gave them the statement that she'd built.
Or close enough.
She told them she’d been called away for a work emergency, and that was why she’d set up her contingency plan in the first place.
Then, after that, she decided to extend the trip. Went away with me. Needed time. Needed distance. Some blend of truth and omission designed to cool the temperature without giving them any real information. HIPAA prevented them from looking too hard into her claims.
That didn't mean they couldn't question her hard, which they had, from what I heard.
Question after question after question.
Of course they did.
The FBI doesn’t hear a story like that and just nod politely.
Roberto didn’t go with her. They all agreed it would be a bad idea if a Conti accompanied her to the interview, and they were right about that, too.
Bad optics. Worse implications. A Conti man walking Dr. Teresa Donato into a federal interview after her disappearance got linked to the family? Might as well hand them a confession wrapped in a bow.
So Roberto stayed out of sight and worked through her lawyer instead.
And her lawyer is a good one.
Very good.
The kind of attorney who doesn’t waste words and doesn’t reassure unless she has something real to base it on.
Apparently, she doesn’t think the Bureau bought it, though.
Or at least not enough of it.
Not enough to call off the investigation.
Not enough to stop digging.
Which is why I’m not particularly surprised when my phone rings from the desk in reception, and the doorman downstairs tells me the FBI is here to see me.
I’m standing in my apartment, barely four hours of sleep in me, coffee gone cold on the counter. Sun’s barely up enough to get through the windows.
“Mr. Conti?”
The doorman sounds careful.
I already know.
“Yeah.”
“There are federal agents here asking for you.”
My grip tightens on the phone.
Of course there are.
Not a request.
Not a message.
Not asking to schedule something.
They’re here.
Now.
I look out across the apartment for one second, at nothing really.
The couch. The windows. The glass on the coffee table catching weak light. The life I’ve been half-living all week while waiting for this shoe to drop.
Then I say, “How many?”
A beat.
“Six.”
I almost laugh. I suppose I should consider that a compliment.
Instead, I let out a breath through my nose.
Six agents in the lobby of my building first thing in the morning. That tells me enough.
This is not courtesy, and they're not looking for conversation.
They didn’t come here hoping I’d volunteer.
“Did they say what they want?” I ask, though I already know the answer.
The doorman hesitates.
Then: “They said they have a warrant, sir.”
There it is.
Arrest first. Questions after.
I close my eyes for one second.
Not because I’m panicking.
Because some part of me is so goddamn tired.
Tired of waiting for consequences. Tired of the silence. Tired of pretending any of this was ever going to resolve cleanly.
Tired of not knowing whether Teresa is all right. Whether she’s angry. Whether she misses me. Whether she hates me a little more every day she’s had back in her normal life to think clearly about what I did.
The doorman says, “Mr. Conti?”
“I heard you.”
“Should I send them up?”
No point in saying no.
No point in trying to walk out another way like some low-rent idiot who thinks six FBI agents came without covering exits.
I could get out if I wanted to.
“No,” I say, though. “I’m coming down.”
I hang up and stand there for a beat.
The apartment is very quiet.
I set the phone on the counter and drag both hands over my face.
So.
This is happening.
I should call Roberto first.
That’s the smart move.
I grab my phone again and call him.
He answers on the second ring, voice rough with sleep and immediately sharp with awareness.
“Vito?”
“The FBI’s in my lobby.”
He wakes all the way up in a heartbeat.
Then: “Do not say anything to them.”
“I know.”
“Do they have a warrant?”
“Yes.”
A muttered curse.
“Listen carefully,” he says. “You go down, you comply, and you shut the fuck up. You tell them your counsel is on the way, and you do not say a single word. Not ‘hi.’ Not ‘bye.’ Not ‘can I get a cup of fucking water?’ Nothing. Do you understand me?”
I lean a hand on the counter and stare at the floor.
“Yeah.”
“I’m calling—”
He stops himself before saying names.
Even half asleep, Roberto’s smarter than most people fully awake.
“I’m moving now,” he says instead. “Do not do anything impulsive.”
That almost gets a laugh out of me.
“A little late for that warning.”
“Vito.”
Flat. Dangerous. Lawyer voice.
I look toward the door.
“I got it.”
“You’d better.”
He hangs up.
I stand there another second, then head for the bedroom.
I should change.
Suit, maybe. Something that says put-together, not dragged out of bed like a moron.
Instead I stop halfway there.
No.
No costume.
No pretending this is a business meeting.
I go with clean jeans, a black sweater, boots. Simple. Neutral. Easy to move in, even though I’m not planning to make a scene.
In the bathroom mirror, I look exactly like I feel—tired, hard around the mouth, eyes a little too flat. I stare at myself for a second and think, Teresa would read you in two seconds like this.
That thought gets a stronger reaction out of me than anything else in a week.
I grab my keys and put them in my pocket.
When I step into the elevator, the ride down feels too fast. My reflection in the polished metal doors looks like somebody else’s problem.
Somebody harder. Older. Closer to the version of me my father expects than the man who spent weeks on an island letting a psychologist peel him open layer by layer.
By the time the doors open to the lobby, I’m ready.
Or as ready as I’m going to get.
The six of them are exactly where I expected.
Dark jackets, stiff posture. That federal stillness that always seems designed to intimidate.
All watching me the second I step out.
I'm not stupid enough to think that six is all there is. It's just who's visible.
One of the men takes a step forward.
“Vito Conti?”
There’s a whole universe of stupid answers available there.
I go with the only smart one.
“Yes.”
He reaches into his jacket, produces identification, then the warrant.
“We have a warrant for your arrest.”
After all this waiting, the words feel almost anticlimactic.
I look at the paper, then at him.
“My counsel is meeting us at the field office.”
He gives me a kind of annoyed look.
He was clearly hoping for some pushback here, in the lobby, with neighbors and staff to watch.
I am not interested in giving him that satisfaction.
A woman steps closer now.
“Turn around, please.”
The lobby feels very large all of a sudden. Very public. The doorman pretending not to stare. The concierge frozen at her station. A couple near the elevators doing a miserable job of looking anywhere else.
I think, irrationally and immediately, I hope Teresa doesn’t hear about this from the news before Roberto gets to her.
Then I turn around.
Hands behind my back.
Metal closes around my wrists.
Cold. Tight. Familiar enough in theory, not in practice.
The click echoes louder in my head than it probably does in the room.
And that, more than the agents or the warrant or even Roberto’s voice on the phone, is what makes the whole thing finally feel real.
I brought the FBI down on us.
On my family.
On Teresa.
And now they’ve come to collect.