Page 5 of The Italian Reckoning (A New York Criminal Empire #3)

SARAH

T oday is my birthday.

And celebrating couldn’t be further from my mind.

This case is dead before it’s even started. Stress builds behind my eyes, creating a tension headache that pulls across my forehead like a rubber band. With a soft groan, my head drops into the crook of my elbow while my keyboard protests slightly at being shoved to the side.

Gio refused to talk to me last week, most likely because I’m a cop, but I can’t shake the feeling that Rocky Barati had something to do with it.

Seeing him come out of Gio’s house was a surprise given that the big families rarely have anything to do with what happens in the smaller families.

Isn’t that how Noah was able to terrorize the Irish for so long back when Brenden Gifford was murdered?

But for whatever reason, Rocky is talking to Gio and Gio isn’t talking to me—other than to tell me that he doesn’t trust cops and we will do more harm than good.

Ironic since it’s an open secret that the Italian Mafia have most of the cops in this precinct in their back pocket.

Shouldn’t they be doing everything they can to help find Belle’s killer?

Maybe the pay isn’t enough.

Underneath the addition of Rocky and Gio, though, lies my real problem. I can’t shake how similar this case is to any involving The Painter. My captain is right. My guilt over that case is running rampant and I can’t afford to let it mess up Belle’s case. One wrong mistake and her killer goes free.

I’ve got no right to call myself a cop if that happens again.

When Gio proved to be a dead end, I tried to talk to Belle’s friends.

A lot of them from her college class were open but told me things I already knew.

She was a smart kid, she liked to party and was graduating at the top of her class.

No boyfriend or girlfriend to speak of, but I tracked down her ex.

He’s out of state so I left a voicemail asking him to call me as soon as he returns to New York.

And the only friend who was with her that night is unavailable .

AKA she’s the daughter of someone who works for Matteo Barati and is off-limits.

I bet she’ll talk to Rocky, though, and he’ll get to learn everything that’s being kept from me, and then he’ll hold it over me with that stupid, smarmy smirk of his. He acts like he knows everything, like the world is so incredibly easy, and for someone like him, it probably is.

My mind drifts. The only time Rocky seemed like a genuine person was when he was bleeding to death in that hallway with two bullets embedded in his back.

He’d been scared, and I’d done everything in my power to make him feel safe and supported.

I didn’t hear much after he was taken away in the ambulance, only that it was touch and go for a while.

When the news reached me that he’d survived, I felt good for a while.

It was the only positive thing to come out of that whole entire Russian mess.

My head lifts suddenly.

The Russians.

Everyone in New York knows that the Russians have the nightclubs in a chokehold.

Belle’s last known location was one of those nightclubs.

A coincidence or cause? After what happened at the gala, I’ve been waiting for some surging disagreement between those two factions.

A lot of Italians were hurt when the Russian gala blew up, and if there’s a simmering desire for revenge that hasn’t risen to the surface yet, Belle’s death could be the first stone.

A much more plausible theory to spin to my captain than the ghost of a serial killer.

With nothing more to add to the case report, I close everything I have on Belle and drag my tired body from my office to the breakroom where shitty coffee and stale donuts become my lunch.

I started this year on a kick of meal prep and good intentions, but who honestly has time to maintain making sixteen meals ahead of time?

I lasted two months and trailed off with one meal a week.

My freezer was stacked with microwavable meals by my next payday.

Chewing determinedly through a dry donut that’s maybe three days out of date, I run back through the timeline of Belle’s disappearance to discovery trying to map out where everyone was based on the statements I could gather from her other friends.

Belle kept herself in good shape, and due to her habit of going on long hikes, no one thought it was strange for her not to text back for a day or two.

Odd in this day and age, but I don’t judge.

If only Gio would talk to me, then…

“Sarah, right?”

Drawn from my thoughts, I glance across the room to another detective as he gingerly picks up one of the remaining donuts.

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” I say, setting my half-eaten donut down with a wince and brushing the stale sugar from my fingers. “They’re really not worth it.”

“Really?” He lifts the donut to his nose and winces. “I miss the days when we’d drown these things in chemicals so they never went off.”

“Same. Although I’m sure our hearts thank us.”

“Maybe.” He sets the donut down and approaches my table with a coffee in hand. “But you’re Sarah, right? You’re working the textile murder case?”

“What about it?” My eyes narrow out of habit.

He holds up one hand. “No reason. I’m trying to crack my own case and sometimes, focusing on something completely different helps my mind come back and find things I missed, that’s all.”

“So my textile murder is your cure?”

“Sure.” He drops into the chair across from me, draping one arm over the back and spreading his thighs as he relaxes. “I heard you’ve got no suspects.”

“No,” I admit with no reason to lie. “Her friends barely saw her after a nightclub. Family won’t talk to me. You know how it is.”

“Family won’t talk?” He raises a brow. “You think they had something to do with it?”

“They won’t talk because I wear a badge.” Leaning back, I tap my hip. “So I can’t get close enough to find out whether they did it or not.”

“Because you’re a cop? Since when has that been a thing?” He laughs shortly and takes a large gulp.

“Criminals don’t talk to cops.”

“Sure they do.”

“Not the good ones.”

His face tightens briefly, and something clicks in my mind as we stare at each other. Only those on the crooked payroll have the freedom to move past the badge that’s supposed to nail them to their oath. Half the assholes around here forget that sometimes.

“Oh.” He lowers his cup. “You’re secure in life?”

“How do you mean?”

“Too good to take a little cash on the side?”

“If you’re suggesting that I can sell out my morals and this badge for a coin purse that will make any family talk to me, then let me make one thing clear.

” Leaning forward, I place one palm flat on the table and brace myself against it as I stand.

“There’s no amount of money in this world that will turn me into you. ”

“Hey.” He snorts and his eyes narrow. “You'd better watch what you’re accusing me of. I’m just offering some friendly advice. Money can open a door.” He sits there with the disguised offer as clear as day on his plate. If I were on the Italian payroll, that family would talk to me.

Because then I would be just like them.

A criminal.

“Stay the fuck away from me,” I grumble. “You should be ashamed.”

“Of what?” He leans back further as I storm out of the room. “Everyone has a price, Sarah! And a breaking point.”

My mood is as stale as those donuts when I make it back to my desk and no amount of rearranging my pens and stationary calms me.

Where the hell does he get off asking me something like that? Poking around like he gets some kind of commission for bringing other cops to the crooked dark side. Should I go to the captain?

No. I have nothing concrete. Never have.

Ever since I learned of the corruption here, I’ve tried to get some hard evidence, but the problem with dirty cops is that they know exactly how to keep things secret. They know the system and play it like experts. Between them and my current case, there’s no light on the horizon.

By the time the end of the day rolls around, I’m even more disillusioned about the future of the case.

I called every nightclub I could think of and they gave me the same response—call back at an undisclosed time to talk to someone higher up who may or may not be there when I call.

I pack up and head out of my office, determined to get as drunk as possible on the singular box of wine I have back at my apartment.

That and Iris for company spells the perfect end to a terrible day.

“Sarah!”

A voice calls out to me just as I reach the elevator and as I turn, Jade from the front desk loops her arm into mine.

“Jade?”

“Come on.” She tugs at my arm and grins at me.

“Where?”

“Out, of course!” Her bright smile lights up her face. “I know what today is. Did you really think I was going to let you slip away without a birthday drink?”

“Hush!” I whisper desperately, not wanting other people to know. “I didn’t make a fuss because I’m tired. I really just want to go home.”

“Nope!” Jade drags me into the elevator and refuses to let go of my arm as more people fill inside. “We’re taking you out for drinks and you have to stay for at least two of them, okay?”

I want to decline and try to for the entire elevator ride, but in the end, real alcohol from a bar sounds much more appealing than box wine. I don’t need to worry about Iris either since her food is on a timer and she’s a very independent kitty.

Before long, Jade drags me into the local bar with several of our colleagues and the drinks start flowing.

Luckily, the asshole from earlier isn’t here or I’d finally be bold enough to give him a piece of my mind.

I start with a rum and Coke, but Jade quickly presses pretty but strong, fruity cocktails in my hand, and the night develops a warm, colorful haze.

I drink and dance, letting the stress of the day and the lack of conclusion to the case melt into the background.

Work is nothing. Drinking and dancing are everything.

It’s not the same as the dancing I romanticize in my mind each time I see the couple in the building across from me dancing their hearts out, but it’s close enough.

For a few hours, my worries cease to exist.

Four drinks is my limit. I’ve never been a heavy drinker and the exhaustion of the day is catching up to me now that my blood is warmed with alcohol, so after kissing Jade on the cheek, I say my goodbyes to everyone who came out—half of whom didn’t even know it was my birthday, but I let them off.

Outside, the cool air is a welcome change from the heat of the club.

I need to find a taxi.

With a drink affecting the stability of my memory, recalling the easiest place to get a taxi takes some work.

I walk down the street and vaguely remember a shortcut that takes me through a parking lot to the other block where several taxis usually line up, waiting for the late-night drinkers to stumble out with enough poor direction to make a decent amount of money.

The world is quiet beyond the distant hum of traffic and the thump of music that grows fainter with each step. I stumble briefly over some small stones, avoid a pothole, and head through the parking lot with my thoughts drifting to the temptation of a takeaway when I get home.

Suddenly, something solid crashes into my back and I lose my footing, stumbling over myself as my balance tips far to the right. As I try to steady myself, pressure sweeps down my arm and my handbag is ripped right out of my hands by some passing thug.

The jerk of my arm sends me down to the ground, landing hard on my hands and knees with a cry, but I don’t stay down.

“Hey!” I yell as I scramble to my feet. “Hey, what the fuck ? Get back here!”