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“Oh, so that’s how you knew the Galantes! They were your ex friends.”
I had every bullshit line imaginable fed to me inside that hour. I was young, my father’s mob connections were a secret, it was high-risk information, could have jeopardized his career or even our lives.
“Oh, right, kind of like mine now?”
I was too livid to even feel a bit of lawyer-ly glee when my father brushed pretend lint off his pants.
“I heard today his dad was an informant. Did you get him to inform you? I can’t believe you told me they were bad people!”
“Don’t take that tone with me.”
“What tone? The tone that a D.A. might take with her criminal father?” I was crying by then. “What am I supposed to do now?”
“Do whatever you want. No one’s telling you to change the way you behave in your office.”
“What does Luca have on you?”
“I’m not a stone-cold killer, if that’s the implication.”
“I didn’t say you were, but you just now said you weren’t. Isn’t that the old rule? Now who’s guilty? How could you do this to me?”
The hurt of finding out from Christopher. The hurt and the shame. Good enough to be D.A., but not worthy to know my family’s darkest secrets. I step out of the car into the frigid air and lean against the driver’s side door, tensing as a lone car flies by. Feeling like I hope a bear will come out of the woods and eat me.
“I don’t think he would blackmail you via me.” My father’s face was somber.
“And why wouldn’t he, to keep himself from prison?”
“I don’t think the boy’s that sloppy.”
“You have no idea what I have on him, and you never will. Chris Rutherford is never coming in my building again.”
“Don’t throw fits, Elise. Your fit-throwing never was becoming.”
Oh, but I had itched to slap him.
“Neither is your deceit.”
There was more I had been wanting to know, but I spun on my heel and stormed out, forever what my second-year law school professor said of me: “Too emotional to make a cool-headed prosecutor, but just fiery enough to make a great one if you keep your focus.”
Now I climb back into the heat of the car, wiping my swollen eyes.
Fuck my dad. Fuck my mom. Fuck Luca.
He was just a kid like you were.
“None of this matters,” I say aloud.
I spin back onto the road, mash the pedal to the floor, and let the winter-bare woods swallow me up.* * *LucaFuck, she drives fast. Who would have thought the D.A. wouldn’t give a shit about a speeding ticket?
I’m working out the motor of my 821 to gain some ground on her, but I’m just guessing where she is, because I can’t look at my phone’s screen while I’m riding.
When I landed at the regional airport where I keep a hangar—and this bike—she had about an hour and fifty minutes on me. Right now, if I had to guess, it’s maybe ten. And I can get it down to zero if I push it.
I rev things up a little, gritting my teeth because it’s fucking freezing. When the tracer app attached to her car pinged to let me know she’d pulled over at that weird side-of-the-road spot, I jumped the gun and had my guy Davide fire up the TTx. He’s a younger dude, was in the Air Force until I hired him to do cargo stuff. Now when I’m in a big hurry or I can’t fly myself, I have him chauffeur me around.
This time, he was able to prep the plane while I headed to the airport, so we were in the air within half an hour, but I was in a rush and left my leather jacket.
I grin as I spot her taillights. Can’t be quite sure…and now I can, because there’s moonlight, I’m up on her ass, and that’s a white Acura. I lower my head as I zip around her, hoping it won’t freak her out to see a lone guy on a bike. It’s not like she knows I’m headed to her place, and she sure as shit doesn’t know why.
Aren’s being weird as hell. He’s called twice in the last day and a half, incensed like that first time, cussing me out for footage he claims the Brooklyn cops have of some of his guys and Alesso doing the monthly exchange. Fishy thing is, I had Max ask around, and nobody up in Brooklyn’s heard about that footage. And Max has some good contacts up there. One thing Max did hear is Aren’s fucking some woman who—as it turns out—works for the goddamn FBI. Soren looked her up, and her job description seems to be classified. Looked to him like she worked out of Manhattan.
If it’s true he’s with her, there’s no way that’s good. Roberto told me, in one of our few detailed conversations about informants and people turncoating, that you’d be surprised how often feds will do dirty shit, like fuck someone who has info they need.
