Chapter Thirty-Seven Tom
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Tom
For the next couple weeks, I lived in two parallel universes.
I knew they would eventually collide. In fact, the best outcome of such an explosion would be if I orchestrated the inevitable. A controlled detonation of my own making.
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from seeing the Camorra’s enforcer every night, even if I spent my days sitting for hours with the informant that was going to hand him over to me eventually.
Enzo straddled the same line. Planning his wedding to Katya during the day, and slipping into my bed every night.
While my life unfurled into a heaping mess, the world kept spinning.
More specifically, my caseload was a mile long, and there were criminals aplenty, demanding my attention and terrorizing the streets of New York.
I was busy wrapping up a murder case concerning a foreign diplomat when a rap sounded on the door. I glanced up to find Sully, a shit-eating grin on his face.
I’d tried my best to keep things professional with Sully since his altercation with Enzo, but it was challenging, considering my usual self wasn’t too agreeable to begin with. So the fuck-with-my-boyfriend self? As you could imagine, not exactly a peach.
Sully, too, wasn’t thrilled by my complaint. He hadn’t directly addressed it with me, but I knew he was pissed I ratted him out.
“Rothwell.”
“Sully.”
“Got a minute?”
“I’m putting my final notes on the Magnusson case before handing it to Zeke.”
“That’s not due till tomorrow morning.” He waved me off. “Come with me—you gotta see this.”
There weren’t enough words in the English language to describe how much I didn’t want to be in his presence. However, as Freddie Mercury said—the show must go on.
I stood and plucked my coat from the hanger, meeting him at the door. “Where are we headed?”
“Not far.” His wolfish grin tugged wider at the corners. “One Police Plaza.”
NYPD headquarters.
Keeping my expression neutral, I fell into step with him. “What exotic creature have they entrapped now?”
“Just wait till you see, Thomas…”
We walked across the hallway, into the elevator, then stepped out of the building.
We marched across a cool Lafayette Street—buzzing with unassuming Christmas shoppers, professionals, and mothers pushing strollers—past the iconic St. Andrews Plaza.
The familiar gold lettering of Police Plaza greeted me.
Red-bricked walls stared back at me. We went past reception, Sully practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
He reeked of too much alcohol and not enough sleep.
Dread gathered in the pit of my stomach.
I forced myself to look bored. A lot was riding on the next few hours.
“Central booking’s this way.” Sully snapped his fingers, pointing as he guided me through the place like I didn’t visit it on a weekly basis. I let him have his moment. The clinks of our smart shoes ricocheted off the walls. My heart lodged in my throat.
All good things must come to an end.
I’d known that since the dawn of time.
And yet I wasn’t ready for the next part. But I knew I never would be, either.
“Ta-da.” Sully stopped in front of a small, dingy cell in a darkened corner of the room. Rusty bars barriered a tiny space with one bench. “Look what the cat dragged in.”
And look, I did.
At the person occupying the bench, sitting in pristine silence and calm, legs spread with his knees turned out, oozing dark aura.
The king of kings. He wore an impeccably stylish suit—Armani slacks, dark Tom Ford turtleneck, and a raincoat, the perfect film noir idol.
A familiar, velvety lock fell down his forehead, daring me to sweep it back up.
Then he looked up. Soft honey eyes framed by a ruthless face.
The man who was in my arms just a few hours ago, last night, thrashing and moaning and kissing me, whispering forbidden things into my ear.
Vincenzo fucking Ferrante.
A mafioso enforcer.
A fucked-up, closeted kid.
My Butterfly.