Chapter 16 Lucy
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LUCY
You forget how loud the world actually is until someone turns off the city.
I wake up on a bench under a harsh fluorescent light, my mouth numb and my fingers sticky, like I touched old honey.
The floor is yellowed linoleum tile, and the cold biting at my knees tells me my skirt is still bunched up.
I sit up and pull it down. Suddenly, I notice the buzz of a vending machine, the whine of a CCTV, and two men arguing somewhere I can’t see.
Not men. Cops.
I almost want to laugh. It’s almost too classic: the universe pulled me out of one crime family’s arms and dropped me right at the feet of another. But this time, I’m the punchline, and my head is splitting in two.
I try to remember the last thing.
A face at the door. That’s all I have. I’d half-expected it to be Alessio, but—no. It was a face I didn’t know, and the last thing before everything cut is just cold, clinical shock that someone’s hand could cover my entire jaw with room to spare. There was nothing after. Not even fear.
I look around the room. It’s classic interrogation style: one table, four chairs, three of them taken. One is me. The other two are—
“Miss Stuyvesant. Awake at last.” The man’s skin is a biscuit shade of tan, and his suit is softer and bluer than the wall behind him.
His receding hairline is shaved to stubble, more for style than anything else.
His plastic name tag reads SAMUEL MATTHEWS, FBI.
Underneath, there’s his badge and a small American flag.
His partner is younger and looks eager, even though her lapel matches his and she has the same official accent. She’s so new that her suit still has the shape from the store hanger. Her mouth twitches, like she’s practiced this moment in the mirror too many times.
I make a show of tucking my hair behind my ear, which is mostly to check for sore spots. There are none.
“You could have just asked me to come in, you know,” I say. My voice sounds rough, my throat dry, and my words scratchy.
Matthews offers an apologetic smile. “That’s not standard protocol for persons of interest.”
I stay quiet and look around the room. I can still see Alessio’s penthouse in my mind. Thinking he might come for me is the only thing keeping my panic in check. Still, I’m shaking, my skin tingling with fear, like someone is trying to rattle me apart.
“Coffee?” the young woman—Badge reads: Special Agent Proctor—nods at the Styrofoam cup in front of me as if it might contain poison.
I push it with my knuckle, letting it spin. “I’d rather have a lawyer.”
Matthews’ smile sharpens: gotcha. “Right. About that, your father is on his way down. Very concerned, as you can imagine.”
Of course he is. I can picture my father now, standing in the lobby below, sleeves perfectly rolled, tie askew in the latest Italian fashion, voice already pitched in that special register reserved for lawyers, boardrooms, and daughters who embarrass him.
I look up, blinking at the agents as if surprised. “Are you guys planning to book me, or just scare the shit out of me?”
Proctor leans forward, elbows on the table. “We’re not here to scare you, Miss Stuyvesant. We’re here to help. We know you’re in a dangerous situation. Maybe more dangerous than you realize.”
She says it like she’s talking to a kid who’s wandered into the street.
“My boyfriend’s a construction magnate,” I say slowly. “He builds skyscrapers and overpays for fancy restaurants. It’s not as dramatic as you think.”
Matthews snorts. “Come on, Lucy. Let’s not play games. Alessio Morrone is not just a construction magnate. He’s a person of interest in eight federal investigations.”
“You arrested me for… what? Being a bad judge of character?” I say.
Matthews' hands go flat on the table. "We detained you because we think you know things you shouldn't." His jaw tightens. "And we're trying to help you before you end up as collateral damage."
I stare at my own hands, and for just a second, the panic wins. My nails are bitten down to nothing. There’s grime under one. I scrape it out with the thumbnail of the other hand.
When I look up, something in the room feels different. Proctor is leaning forward so much I think she might fall into my lap. “Lucy, if you want to get ahead of this, now is the time. You don’t want to end up with a ring on your finger and a body in the trunk.”
You know those dreams where you open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out? That’s what this feels like.
Footsteps in the hall. Then the door opens with a click.
My father fills the doorway, and for a split second, I see the man I once idolized: John Stuyvesant III, breaker of banks, breaker of hearts, breaker of me.
His smile is pure old-world charm, the kind that used to belong to oil barons and senators.
It’s only when he makes eye contact that I see the real message in it: disappointment, pureed and spoon-fed.
“Lulu,” he says, as if we’re meeting for brunch.
“Dad.” My voice is flat, but I meet his gaze without blinking.
He sits, crossing legs with the ease of someone who’s never been handcuffed. “Agents, can you uncuff my daughter, please? She’s not a flight risk.”
“We’ll need her to sign a waiver first,” Proctor says.
My father turns on her with a polite, lethal smile. “You’ll do it anyway,” he says.
They do.
The cuffs come off. My wrists are pink and strangely cold. My father pats my hand, gentle and distant, like a nurse with a patient.
Matthews recites the standard boilerplate: “Mr. Stuyvesant, your daughter is entitled to legal representation. Would you like us to call your family lawyer?”
I beat him to it: “No. I have my own attorney.”
This, finally, knocks the old man back half an inch in his chair. “Since when?”
“Since I realized your friends aren’t mine,” I say, and I watch the skin around his eyes go papery and thin.
“Fine,” he says lightly. “Who?”
"Enzo Ricci," I say, voice steadier than I feel.
The room goes still. Matthews and Proctor exchange a look I've seen before—the kind that says I've just confirmed everything they suspected about me.
"And his number?" Proctor asks, pen hovering over her notepad.
I recite it from memory. I know exactly what I'm doing—calling a mob lawyer who will come at Alessio's bidding. Who will walk through that door with Morrone's power radiating behind him like heat off asphalt?
"We'll call him," Matthews says, his tone making it clear he thinks I’ve just sealed my fate. "While we wait, why don't you tell us how you ended up in a locked apartment with a man who is, by our last check, a known criminal.”
My father cuts in, eyes fixed on me the whole time. “My daughter is under immense stress,” he says. “Kindly allow her a minute to compose herself before you begin your questioning. And in the meantime—” he waves vaguely—“coffee for the table, please?”
Matthews looks like he’s about to argue, but Proctor gives him a look that clearly means, “Let it play.”
They leave the room, closing the door softly instead of slamming it. Alone with my father, my hands start to shake again.
He doesn’t miss it.
“I thought we’d moved past this,” he murmurs, voice lowered for my ears only. “You know who these men are, Lucinda. Alessio is not your knight in shining armor.”
It’s almost funny, if you can laugh at tragedy. “You taught me to use people until they break, Dad. I guess I’m just slow to learn.”
He studies me and then leans in. “Is it money? Security? Does he hurt you? I can buy you your own place, an apartment in Paris. Tell me what it is that’s keeping you with him, and I’ll match it.”
I stare at him, then at the wall, then at the table. “Days ago, you and Mom forced me to vacate the one I had. I’m not interested in your charity–it always comes with strings. Besides, you can’t buy what I want,” I say.
His sigh is old, frayed, and truly sad for a second.
“I just want you safe, Lucy. I don’t want you buried on the front page of the Post some morning.”
“At least then you’d finally read about me,” I say, but only to myself.
We don’t speak until the door opens again.
Enzo Ricci is the kind of man who can intimidate anyone in the room.
His suit fits like it was made just for him, and his hair is slicked back with something expensive that shines under the lights.
When he speaks, his voice is sharp and smooth, impossible to ignore: "You will not address my client without me present.
Miss Stuyvesant is here voluntarily–although you denied her due process when you kidnapped and unlawfully detained her.
I will be discussing a possible lawsuit with my client.
She is not under arrest, nor is she charged with a crime.
My client will not be answering questions today.
We will be filing a restraining order against the Stuyvesant family, whom I strongly suspect orchestrated this little performance.
" He glances at my father. "Mr. Morrone does not appreciate attempts to intimidate him.”
My father's face drains of color. Matthews starts to protest, but Enzo is already standing, his hand firm but gentle on my elbow.
"Lucy, we're leaving now," he says. I stand up right away, feeling a small victory grow inside me as my father watches, powerless, while I walk away with the enemy.
Proctor pushes: “We want to protect you, Lucy. But you need to help us.”
“You want me to rat on him.”
Enzo puts a calming hand on my wrist. “My client is not here to discuss Mr. Morrone’s private life, as she is neither employee nor co-conspirator. She is simply Mr. Morrone’s girlfriend. That is not a crime in the state of New York, no matter how many RICO statutes you stack on top.”
There’s a beat of silence. Matthews says, “Lucy, don’t waste your future. You can’t abandon your family and expect us to help you when you inevitably destroy your life.”
I manage a thin smile. "I appreciate your concern." Then I turn and follow Enzo through the doorway, feeling the weight lift from my lungs with each step away from my father's disappointed stare. Fortunately for me, I’m used to it.