Page 7 of Tortured Hearts (Marchesi Empire #2)

BECCA

I ’m running on fumes of hysterics by the time I charge through the doors of the Providence PD and sprint to the front desk. “I need to see Chief George Reese.”

The blonde behind the counter looks me up and down while smacking her gum. “The chief is busy.”

I slam my palms on the counter. “I don’t care if he’s having tea with the royal fucking family. I want to see him now .”

“Lady, I don’t know who you think you?—”

“Becca?”

We both turn to see Marvin Hooper, the department’s captain and one of my father’s oldest friends, standing in the doorway at the heart of the building, a bewildered look on his face.

“What are you doing here this late?” I ask in what I hope is an even keeled and not at all panicked voice. “ Aren’t you supposed to be off duty?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be in the hospital?” he quips, walking toward us.

“Yeah, about that…” While I’m fairly certain he’s oblivious to the stain on my father’s badge, the fewer people drawn into this mess, the better.

However, flat out lying to him after waving my morality card in Gianni’s face makes me the worst kind of hypocrite.

So I tie strings of truth around a lie and hope for the best. “I need to see my father. It’s about the arrest he brought in. I have information.”

His warm expression cools. “It’s an open and shut case.”

“According to who, the law or my father? Because there’s a personal vendetta fueling one of them. It’d be a shame if someone went public with it.”

He stares at me with a mangled look of surprise and disgust. I don’t blame him. I’d say I don’t know where that venom came from, but it’s the second time I’ve threatened someone today. I appear to be on a hot streak of doing out-of-character shit.

It’s a different experience to be on the outside of the corner for once. To wield power instead of wither under its weight. After a lifetime of keeping my head down and eyes lowered, I feel the tables finally turning.

And when Hooper’s sour expression turns to stone, I know he does, too.

“I’ll get someone to take your statement,” he says curtly.

“No!” I blurt out, inwardly cringing at the echo that follows. What the hell was I thinking? Manipulating situations is Gianni’s area of expertise, not mine. That man could strut out of Hell with the Devil’s crown armed only with his confidence in his own bullshit.

Wait, that’s it.

Coercion doesn’t always require an elaborate web of deceit. Sometimes, all it takes is a simple game of chicken.

Exhaling, I meet Hooper’s hesitant gaze. “Let me rephrase that. You can take me to my father right now, Captain, or I can call the U.S. Marshal’s office, and you can explain to them how you single-handedly destroyed their high-profile RICO case.”

Luckily, he doesn’t call my bluff. After his ruddy complexion turns the color of curdled milk, he makes a stiff motion for me to follow him.

I do, silently basking in my victory as we maneuver our way through the empty hallways.

The longer we walk, I question what I’m doing, only to come to an abrupt stop.

I look up at Hooper, who already has his palm extended.

“Wait here.”

“But I?—”

“Becca,” he drawls, glaring at me while clenching his hand into a fist. “I can’t break protocol, even when threatened with extortion.”

Ouch . When he says it like that, it does sound kind of shitty.

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I give him a swift nod, envisioning all the ways this could play out as the door closes behind him. None of them include muffled shouting and a loud crash seconds before the door flies open, and my father comes barreling out, cheeks flushed.

“Have you lost your goddamn mind?”

However, my attention isn’t on him. It’s on the man sitting at the other side of the table. The moment we lock eyes, his bored, blasé expression turns to stone.

“Becca?” Gianni hits his feet, halfway clearing the table before two men all but clothesline him back into his seat.

I rush forward only to collide with my father’s chest, his hands gripping my arms. I jerk and twist, but it’s like fighting a dozen rusted seat belts. “Let me go,” I scream.

“Get your fucking hands off her!” Gianni roars from inside the room.

My father glares at his friend, his teeth clenched. “Don’t just stand there. Shut the damn door, and get out of my sight.”

Shooting me a dirty look, Hooper slips in behind him and closes the interrogation room door before quickly disappearing around the corner. With my access to Gianni cut off, I slump in my father’s grip.

Great. Now what?

Releasing his hold, my father steps back and lets out an exasperated sigh while pinching the bridge of his nose. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Didn’t the captain tell you? I have information pertaining to your witch hunt.” I flash a plastic smile. “I mean case .”

“Don’t test me, Becca. I’m not in the mood.”

“ You’re not in the mood?” I throw my head back and laugh. “Well, I’m sorry your attempt at playing both sides hit a snag, Dad. Try nearly being charbroiled to a crisp. That’ll put a kink in your day.”

The anger fades from his eyes. “Why are you out of the hospital?” He scans the white cotton dress and sandals Meredith pulled from the back of her closet. “And why are you dressed like that?”

I stifle the urge to cringe. Either my receptionist is seasonally clueless or a colossal smartass. “Not important,” I say, hoping he lets it go.

“Not important?” he repeats. “You said it yourself—you were ‘nearly charbroiled’. Jesus, Becca, you’re a psychiatrist. Why in God’s name would you leave the hospital, knowing what something that traumatic can do to a person?”

“Because I’m not a narcissistic asshole who always puts myself first. You should try it sometime.”

Part of me feels bad for the vitriol I’m spewing. The old me would never speak so callously. She whispered it safely behind a wall of fortified glass, where she could be the smart, systematic robot everyone wanted.

Because there’s nothing oppressive men fear more than a woman with nothing to lose.

My insult washes over him, hardening his expression. “This isn’t the time or place for this conversation.”

“You’re right,” I say flatly. “So why don’t you find some non-corrupt officers so I can give my statement?”

“I can take whatever statement you feel you need to give.”

“So it can just end up in a paper shredder the moment I walk out the door? No thanks. I prefer to give it to the men without my mother’s blood on their hands.”

He flinches, and for a moment, I regret the low blow.

Then, I think of Gianni, most likely being interrogated without an attorney, and every ounce of remorse evaporates.

We stand there in silence, each waiting for the other to fold, when he lets out a resigned sigh, his clenched jaw relaxing.

“I’ll let you give a statement on one condition… ”

I don’t ask. I simply raise my eyebrows and wait.

“You let me take you back to the hospital, afterward.”

“I’ve been discharged,” I say, folding my arms across my chest.

“Then let me take you home.” His gaze narrows. “But you have to stay there.”

Not ideal, but I can live with it. “Fine.”

He blinks, as if he expected more of a battle. Honestly, so did I, but with my energy tank on reserve, I don’t have any fight left in me. “R-right. Well, I guess let’s get you set up in a room.” He turns and walks down the hall.

I stare at the closed door in front of me. “What about this one?”

He stops and looks over his shoulder, deep lines creasing his forehead. “It should go without saying that, legally, I can’t put a witness in the same room with a suspect,” he says, his voice tight. “And that, personally, I’d take a bullet to the head, first.”

“When are you going to stop treating me like I’m twelve years old?”

“When you stop acting like it.” At my sharp inhale, he bites down on his tongue and huffs out a breath. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Unease settles low in my stomach as I cast one last glance at the interrogation room door, then follow him down the quiet hallway.

With every step, I remind myself that truth is on my side.

That what’s done in the dark always reveals itself in the light.

That the bloodiest hands always pay the highest price.

But what if I’m wrong? What if sin really is an irreversible stain on the soul? What if instead of bringing the wolf to his knees, I’m delivering Gianni to his door?