Page 20 of Confession (Constantine Brothers #2)

SIXTEEN

Quinn

There’s a good chance I’m gonna lose my shit sometime soon, and I don’t have a good space to do it.

I should’ve gotten away earlier today, taken a drive, gone somewhere remote, but like an idiot, I just worked on shutting down.

That was fine while I was avoiding Vitali all day, but now we’re at Eclipse and it’s only a matter of time before he loses patience with me.

He wants me to come talk to him. I’ll admit, that’s a fair expectation, but I am freaking the fuck out and have been since the middle of last night.

I rarely sleep through a night. It shocked the shit out of me two nights ago, after Vitali and I fucked in his room for the first time, to wake up in the morning with him.

That was the start of it.

I sucked him off and came doing it, again, then I spent almost the entire day with him. He wanted to cook out by the pool and he obviously had a plan surrounding it. The problem was, it was so fucking nice . The whole day. It was so, so good. Fun even.

I think that’s why I didn’t notice that, deep down, I was starting to panic. I didn’t want to panic. I still don’t want to. That’s why I’m walking a circuit of the club, overwhelming myself with stimulation to distract my nervous system.

I can’t think about why I’m panicking. If I do, it’ll boil up and actually happen. I just have to get through the night, avoid Vitali if possible, get him home, and find a place to lose my shit.

Or maybe I should text Sasha and ask her to take my place.

Fuck, I should probably do that.

I check my surroundings. I’m on the main floor between the bar and the mezzanine stairway.

It’s a typical weekday crowd, lighter and less chaotic than a weekend.

No suspicious movement, no red flags. I move over to the stairway so no one can get behind me, then I pull out my phone, scan my thumbprint, and send Sasha a text.

Can you come take over at the club?

Sasha’s reply comes through in seconds like she was watching her phone. Be there in 10.

What? Where the hell is she? The house is a solid twenty-minute drive in favorable traffic. But I’d rather she get here than answer my questions, so I just text, Thx .

I stow my phone.

I plan another circuit of the club, starting toward the bar, but I have a sixth sense for Vitali, I swear, because I look back to see him at the top of the mezzanine steps.

My heart skips because I know he’s coming for me, that he’s been watching me via the security cameras.

His appearance after my text is too immediate, and his eyes are locked on me.

His hands are in the pockets of his gray dress pants, his jacket parted and flared back behind them, his matching vest and watch chain on display. He’s pissed. He has been all day, and his clothes reflect it. The more stressed Vitali is, the more formally he dresses.

I go to meet him at the bottom of the steps because there’s really no choice. His jaw is tight as he nods his head in the direction of the back door. I follow him through the club.

We step out into the humid June night. The parking lot lights blaze down, picking out the shine of Vitali’s hair, sparking on his cufflinks as he crosses his arms.

He says, “You obviously weren’t going to come talk to me.”

“Probably not.”

“Was that Sasha you were texting?”

“She’s on her way.”

Vitali looks away, out across the parking lot, showing me the gorgeous profile that I just can’t look at right now. I drop my eyes to his chest, where his shirt is partially open to show the edge of his tattoos. I can’t look at that either, so I drop my eyes all the way.

That’s right, keep your eyes on the fucking ground where they belong.

I hope Vitali hits me. I hope he tells me what a piece of shit I am.

He doesn’t do any of that. Instead he says, “Fine. If that’s how you want it,” and turns away.

I swear to god, some kind of chasm opens right behind me. I feel it, the crack in the earth, the void. My head goes light and my stomach pitches as I stagger a step like I’m going to fall into that void.

I want him to hit me because that I understand, because that makes sense to me, because that feels right to me—but I don’t want him to leave me.

I grab at Vitali, catching his sleeve. He wheels on me, his dark eyes furious. He says nothing. He waits for what I’ll give him.

But I can’t give him anything. I need something from him, but I have nothing to give, and I know exactly how worthless that makes me.

So I offer the only thing I know how to do. My job. “I’ll wait on the mezzanine until Sasha—”

Vitali shoves me back, forcing my grip off him. “I can fucking take care of myself. I can’t deal with you right now.”

I turn away because I can’t deal with him either, can’t watch him walk away—and that’s when I see a car that doesn’t belong in this lot. And two men in it.

Obviously, my first thought is the DiMaggios, and I spin toward Vitali. I crowd him toward the door. He’s surprised enough that he doesn’t shove me again, but he does resist. He’s looking over my shoulder as I yank the door open behind him.

I’m about to shove him through into the club when he snaps, “It’s the feds.”

I freeze. Shit.

I turn to face them, still keeping Vitali behind me. As the passenger gets out of the car, I recognize him as Special Agent Martin Cohen, head of the Boston office, an agent too high up to be in the field. That should mean he’s here on DiMaggio business, but he’s got another agent with him.

Vitali steps out from behind me as the two men approach. They’re dressed in plain clothes, but each has a gun at the hip. Cuffs too.

“What brings you out tonight, gentlemen?” Vitali asks.

“We have some questions,” Cohen replies.

They stop about four feet away. It’s way too close. I scan the dark parking lot for more agents or the DiMaggios. Vitali will do the talking. My job is to protect—

“Questions for Quinn Richmond.”

Oh, fuck.

“Questions about what?” Vitali demands.

Cohen’s face is impassive as he regards Vitali. “About an open case. Murder.” Cohen’s eyes jump to me. “Man by the name of Leo Pedano.”

Old habits surface to save me. Everything locks up inside. I return Cohen’s impassive gaze. “Am I under arrest?”

“Should you be?”

I don’t answer that.

Vitali says, “If he’s not under arrest, you can fuck right off.”

Cohen looks to Vitali. “We can get a warrant or—”

“You do that,” Vitali cuts in.

“—or Mr. Richmond can come down to the field office and help us out. You know, in the interests of justice.”

I put my hand on Vitali’s stomach, both to pass him my phone and to still him as I walk by. Taking the phone automatically, he hisses, “ Quinn ,” but I don’t stop.

I walk straight past the agents too, heading to their car. Vitali can be very hotheaded, and I don’t want him getting in trouble. Besides, if I don’t comply, they will get a warrant, and that will only make things worse. Better to find out what they know.

The Jag pulls into the parking lot, headlights blazing over the scene. I nod to Sasha in the driver’s seat, willing her to stay calm. Leaving the car running, she gets out, her gaze running from me, to the agents walking after me, to Vitali.

When I reach the agents’ car, I wait because I know the drill. I put my arms up and let Cohen’s backup agent pat me down. I don’t have any guns on me, but the agent finds my knife and takes it.

Meanwhile, Vitali is walking to the Jag. Once he’s in the passenger seat, Sasha gets back in.

The agent opens the door for me then closes it once I’m in the car.

He and Cohen get in, then we’re moving. No one says anything as we drive across the city.

I don’t look back, but I can see the Jag’s headlights beaming straight into the rearview mirror.

God, I love Sasha. And thank god I’d already texted her.

Thank god she was close. There’s only reason she would’ve been. She expected trouble.

But maybe not this form of it.

Sasha and Vitali can’t follow us into the field office parking lot, so they wait at the barricade, watching as I walk into the building with Cohen and the other agent.

The agents take me through the quiet, after-hours lobby and up a few flights of stairs to a steel door. Dread pools in my stomach, though it’s more from memory than from my present circumstances. This isn’t my first time in an interrogation room. Interview room, they like to call it these days.

I go straight to the chair that’s meant for me, the one facing the two-way mirror.

“You’ve done this before,” Agent Cohen observes as he closes us in. The other agent doesn’t enter.

I get comfortable in the chair. “You know I have.”

Cohen removes his light jacket and drapes it over the back of his chair, revealing his gun, cuffs, and the slight paunch showing against his blue button down.

He looks about fifty. He’s one of those ordinary-looking men.

Average height and built, average face, tidy haircut.

They’re always the ones you have to watch out for, always the ones on someone’s payroll.

Smart enough to look for a sweet deal, not smart enough to realize that it never pays out. He’ll be dead within a year.

“You do have an interesting history, Mr. Richmond.”

“You can call me Quinn.”

“Prefer informality?” When I don’t answer that, he guesses more accurately, “Or you don’t like your last name?”

“Is that what we’re here to talk about?”

“We’re here to talk about you.”

I just wait. It’s better not to play these games.

Cohen regards me steadily, waiting for me to fidget or say something. After a while, he inhales deeply. His head tilts to the side.

“Nothing to offer?”

“You’re the one with the questions. You asked for my help, and here I am, like a good citizen.”

“Do you think someone can become a good citizen after killing their own father?”

I don’t let that touch me. It goes straight past. “It was self defense.”