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1
ARIA
The bass is pounding and shaking the windows of the car as I drift around a sharp corner, my seatbelt locking into place as I laugh.
Gripping the wheel tighter, I press the accelerator down, the roar of the engine sending a shiver down my spine.
Nothing feels as free as flying through these streets behind the wheel of a muscle car. This right here is the only thing in my life that’s under my control.
I grin as I glance in my rearview mirrors, seeing my brothers falling behind. At first, I think it’s because I’m beating them – I’ve always been better at racing – but then I see the bright red and blue lights illuminating the night.
“Fuck,” I mutter as I glance at the nearest cop, wondering if I can outrun him.
Don’t do anything that draws any unnecessary attention to the family,my father’s voice says in my head.
Scowling, I hit the brakes and come to a stop a few feet in front of the officer. Within seconds, there are cop cars surrounding me on all sides. Officers are getting out, their guns pointed at my car and myself.
I glance over at the console, knowing that there is a gun hidden deep within it. It’s stashed in a secret compartment that only my fingerprint will open. There’s no point in getting the gun out unless I want to be charged with something other than racing.
It’s not the carrying a gun that would be the problem – I have a permit – but the lack of serial number is something the cops would find concerning.
“Out of the car! Now! And keep your hands where I can see them,” one of the officers shouts as I roll my window down. “Reach outside the car, open the handle, and get down on the ground.”
I take a deep breath, keeping my free hand up as I reach through the window and open the door. Both hands are above my head as I get out of the car and lower myself to the cold pavement.
As soon as I’m down, there are several men rushing toward me. It takes them a few seconds to snap on a pair of handcuffs before hauling me to my feet.
My mind is racing as they read me my rights and lead me to one of the cars. Not a single one of them is mentioning exactly what I’m being arrested for but I suppose it doesn’t matter.
If you’re an officer and you manage to get your hands on a member of the Russo Family, you don’t let them go.
While I’m being lowered into the back of the car, one of the officers on a mile-long rant about my family, I get a glimpse of the headlights of my brothers’ cars just beyond the circle of officers.
They may not have been taken into custody, but they are watching everything that’s happening. As soon as I’m driven out of here, they’ll drive to the family estate as fast as they can, tripping over each other to tell my father that I’m in trouble again.
Of course, I wouldn’t be in trouble if even one of them had bothered to flash their lights and warn me about what they saw before I did.
Once the news of my arrest gets back to my father, there’s going to be hell to pay.
* * *
I’ve been sittingin an interview room for what feels like an eternity. I’m sure it’s been at least twelve hours since I’ve been given two sandwiches, an apple, and a few glasses of water.
Whatever they’re waiting for, it’s taking its sweet time.
My legs are starting to ache as I get up and pace around the room again. There’s a camera in the corner, its red light blinking at me as it tracks my movements. I scowl at the camera, sticking up my middle finger before tucking my hands back in my pockets and pacing again.
As I pace, I make sure to keep my face neutral. I was taught to act as natural as possible and deny everything. Yes, I’ve got a lot to hide, but they don’t need to know that.
Street racing isn’t the worst thing that they could charge me with, but it’s the only charge they have to lay against me. Keeping me in an interview this long is entirely a power play. Whatever officer is running the show likely thinks he’s going to be able to walk in here and get me to spill all of my family’s dirty little secrets.
The joke is on them. My father trained his children from the time we could talk to stay silent about the family business.
I still have scars from his training.
“Well, you seem to be a little restless,” a man says as he walks into the room, a file tucked beneath his arm.
The scent of his spicy cologne fills the room and leaves my mouth watering. It’s nothing like anything any of the men my age wear. Hell, nothing about him is anything like men my age. The man walks with an air of confidence that comes from assuming you have all the power in the room.
