Page 28 of The Fractured

A thought crossed my mind, and I tilted my head. “How many people are on this case?”

“A handful of the best we have for organized crime. Me included.”

“And you trust them?”

Mark sighed and looked up from his notes. “What are you saying? That we’d have a mole?”

“How would you know if you had one or not?”

He scoffed and went back to reading his notes. “They’re highly respected detectives, hand-picked by our captain, with spotless records and plenty of loyalty to the badge. None are working for criminals.”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sarge.”

“Moving on… Who were you talking to before you met the Gimello triplets?”

“One of the other fighters.” White lies and half-truths were easy.

Evidence of Seb being a fighter was burned with The Den, along with everyone else’s photos. In the law's eyes, Seb didn’t exist to them, and that was how I planned to keep it.

Mark watched me closely. “He asked about the wire, but then you went quiet.”

“The tape got loose, and the wire fell. I put it in my pants before someone else saw. I guess it was unplugged. I told him it was my earphones.” My voice remained steady.

He hummed and looked back at his notes. “Are you close with any of the other fighters?”

“No.”

“And you aren’t saying that to protect a friend?”

I folded my arms loosely across my chest. “None of us are friendly with each other. It’s every man for himself in those places.”

Mark considered this for a moment, clicking his pen before he continued. “You mentioned life lessons you learned from working with Antonio. I imagine some of those included ways of getting you out of trouble. Maybe dealing with unwanted company?”

I realized too late where he was taking this new line of questioning.

“What happened to your father, Gio Calacoci?”

The mention of his name created tension in my jaw. “Read the death certificate. It was suicide.”

“There was no note.”

“He wasn’t very sentimental.”

“It’s a little odd, don’t you think? Your mother winds up a paraplegic and loses an unborn baby from a domestic dispute, and then five years later, your father kills himself? Quite brutally, may I add.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I’m trying to figure out what kind of man you are.”

Guilty people always talked first, so I kept my mouth shut and grew comfortable in the silence drawing out between us.

“Strong, silent type. Got it… Who paid for all your mother’s equipment? Like the ramps and the wheelchair.”

“Antonio.”

“That was generous of him.”

“It didn’t come free.”