Chapter Forty-One #2
Santos dropped a heavy file onto the table, the slap echoing around the sterile room.
He didn’t sit right away—he dragged the chair back slowly, metal grating on tile, savoring each second.
I felt the hairs on my arms rise, a cold sweat prickling at my collar.
I pressed two fingers to my temple, feigning boredom while tracking every subtle move.
Santos finally lowered himself with deliberate calm.
He thumbed through the file before splaying out a fan of crime scene photos—Kate, blood and regret splashed across glossy paper.
He didn’t look at me. “You think you’re untouchable, Vitale?
” His voice was silk stretched over gravel, that old edge of personal vendetta.
“Chicago’s not your playground anymore.” He stabbed a finger at one of the pictures, lips curling.
“You gift-wrapped the murder weapon for us, didn’t you? ”
My throat tightened, but I let a crooked smile slip. “All this effort just for me? I’m flattered, really. But if you want a confession, you’ll need to do better than recycled threats.” I leaned in, eyes locked on his, refusing to flinch. “And I’ll say it again—lawyer.”
The detectives shifted, exchanging glances.
Santos’s expression didn’t change, but I caught the flicker in his jaw.
I let my eyes roam over each face—Cimorelli’s mask cracked for a half-second, gaze darting my way before he stiffened.
“You know, I could make this easier for you,” I said, dropping my voice.
“Maybe share a roster of the officers in this precinct who enjoy a little extra holiday cash from the Vitale family.”
That landed. Cimorelli’s fingers twitched around his cellphone, and he typed something fast, knuckles white.
I hid my smirk, settling back, forcing an easy posture that felt like wearing someone else’s skin.
In the silence, Santos and the detectives began circling, building their case with words sharp as knives—certain they already had me.
But beneath my calm, my mind raced with everything I was going to do when I got my hands on that vile woman when the interrogation room door finally slammed open and there stood the cause of all my problems.
Grinding my back molars, I watched her stride into the interrogation room as if she owned it, her heels clicking with each step.
Without hesitation, she slammed her hand down on the metal table, cutting through the tension in the air.
My patience—already threadbare from Santos’s relentless needling and the suffocating presence of the detectives—frayed even further at the sight of her.
My nerves prickled, every muscle tensing beneath my suit.
I could sense the dangerous edge in the room; whatever move she was about to make, it wasn’t one I could predict.
But one thing was certain: if the officers decided to leave us alone together, there was every possibility this would turn into a double homicide.
“Gentlemen, please tell me you are not talking to my client without his attorney present.” The words sliced through the tension in the room, her presence commanding immediate attention.
She entered with authority, her posture unyielding, and her gaze locked onto the assembled detectives.
The force of her arrival left no doubt—this was not her first time defending someone in a hostile interrogation room.
Santos, the smug asshole, leaned back in his chair and narrowed his eyes, the corners of his mouth tugging into a smirk.
He exchanged a quick glance with his partner, searching for support, as if daring her to escalate the confrontation.
His tone was laced with sarcasm and bravado as he replied, “Didn’t know that Vitale had even called his attorney.
” The challenge hung in the air, yet she stood unfazed, her composure absolute.
“Oh, Miguel,” she cooed demurely, her eyelashes fluttering in a gesture that seemed gentle on the surface but was sharpened with intent.
Her look could slice through steel. “You know I have my clients low-jacked. The second they step into this fine establishment, I am alerted.” Her words were precise, each syllable measured to establish her dominance in the room.
“Now, if you fine gentlemen would please let me have a moment alone with my client, I would greatly appreciate it, or should I call Michael Avarro in Internal Affairs and let it slip that the Chicago Police in conjunction with the District Attorney’s office is not above board?
” She finished with a pointed smile directed at Santos, her voice dripping with mock concern.
“You know how Internal Affairs loves a good scandal.”
Santos’s jaw clenched as he scraped the gritty crime scene photos back into his file.
The glare he aimed at my supposed attorney was pure venom, but I saw something else there too—frustration, and the hard glimmer of a man realizing he’d lost control.
He stood abruptly, knuckles white around the folder’s edge.
“This isn’t over, Ms. Tripplethorne,” he spat, the words half promise, half threat.
He didn’t wait for her reply, storming out with the detectives on his heels, the door slamming like a gavel.
The second the door closed behind them, I jumped out of my seat and grabbed her neck, shoving her up against the concrete wall. “Give me a fucking reason not to snap your goddamned neck.”
Mischief blew me an air kiss, leaned close, and whispered, “If you’re going to choke me, Massimo, please squeeze harder, so I can enjoy it too.”
Ignoring her, I seethed, “Who the fuck do you work for?”
Tilting her head, she smiled. “I thought it was obvious.”
I growled.
“She works for me.”