It's not in my nature.
He wouldn't accept it, anyway.
"So now that you're back home," he says, "where are you on our little problem?"
"Which problem?"
"The fact that Carmela's still breathing."
No bullshitting.
Straight to the point.
"I'm working on it."
"You've been working on it for a long time, Vitale. Too much longer and I might have to look elsewhere for a solution."
My stomach coils.
It's a thinly veiled threat.
He's saying he doesn't need me.
This job became mine because I had a personal vendetta, a reason to see it through. At the end of the day, any one of us could do it.
It would probably be better, logically. She expects me, and these days I'd be grateful to have that burden lifted from my shoulders. But backing out now is the equivalent of bowing out, and you don't bow out when it comes to Ray.
He takes you out instead.
I'm already walking a fine line with Karissa.
Maybe he'll let that slide.
Maybe, if I can convince him she's innocent.
But Carmela's non-negotiable.
"Nonsense," I say. "I got it handled."
"You sure about that?"
"Positive."
"And the girl?"
I hesitate. "What about her?"
"How's she going to accept what you have planned?"
That's a different question than he usually asks.
Maybe he's coming around.
Maybe.
"I don't see why she ever has to know."
"You keep secrets from her?"
I shrug a shoulder. "Some things are better left unsaid."
Ray throws back the rest of his scotch before standing up. He discards the glass and strolls over to me, pausing beside my chair. His thick hand clamps down on my shoulder, squeezing.
"You're like a son to me," he says. "I cut you slack because of it, because my daughter loved you, because she saw something in you, something I saw the day we met. You didn't cower, Vitale. You never cowered. Don't do it now. Don't cower."
He doesn't sound angry.
He sounds exasperated.
Reaching up, I clasp my hand overtop his for a moment, silently letting him know I understand. I return to my beer as he walks away, leaving me alone.
I finish my drink before standing up and strolling toward the exit. Kelvin is gone from the door, a guy whose name I don't know in his place. His gaze flickers to me only briefly before he bows his head.
I walk out, into the late afternoon sunshine, and make my way around the building when I hear a car pull into the alley behind me. They drive slow, the sound of gravel crunching an agonizing groan. I slow my footsteps, an ominous tingle creeping up my spine, my fingers twitching at my sides.
My heart beats wildly, but it's soothed right away when colored lights bounce off of the buildings, a high-pitched squeal echoing behind me.
Police.
Who thought I'd ever be relieved to encounter them? But on the hierarchy of people who could potentially sneak up on me, the police are currently the least of my problem.
I stop where I am, slowly raising my hands without turning around. I hear doors open, footsteps approaching hastily before hands are all over me, patting me down from behind. They're checking for weapons we all know they won't find as others stroll around in front of me. The familiar face of Detective Jameson greets me with a smile that has all the warmth of dry ice. "Mr. Vitale."
"Detective," I say, nodding at him as his partner joins his side. "To what do I owe this honor?"
Just as I say it, the officer patting me down roughly grabs my crotch. I close my eyes, groaning, willing myself not to react. Jackass.
"Just in the neighborhood," Jameson says casually as the officer grabs the back of my coat and yanks. I stumble, clenching my hands into fists, as Jameson's smile freezes, his eyes darting over my shoulder. "I think that's enough. He's clean."
"As always," I say, lowering my arms.
"Can never be too sure," Jameson says. "By the way, I heard you were out of the country last week… Italy, was it? Vacation looks good on you. You look… refreshed. Better than you looked a few months ago after your little trip to Vegas. Could be worse, though, right? Heard you lost a friend on that vacation."
I curve an eyebrow at him. "How about you cut the bullshit and tell me what you want? I'd like to be on my way."
"Ah, I thought maybe we could chat."
"Chat."
"Yes."
"Man to man? Or detective to witness?"
An officer behind me laughs. "More like suspect."
Detective Jameson shoots him a look that silences the man. Tension escalates. Suspect.
"If you have any questions for me, refer them to my attorney," I tell them. "Otherwise, I have nothing to say."
I try to walk away when Jameson steps directly in my path, blocking me from leaving. Scathing words are on the tip of my tongue from impatience, but they're stolen from my lips when he motions toward the uniformed officers. All at once someone grabs a hold of me, forcing my hands behind my back. I struggle as they yank me backward, slamming me against the hood of the police cruiser as they put handcuffs on my wrists.
Pain rips through my side as I grimace.
"Uh-uh," Andrews says, strolling over and bending down so he's eyelevel with me. "You know not to resist."
I'm yanked back upright once I'm handcuffed.
"You have the right to remain silent," Jameson says, his voice monotone as he mutters the words. "Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand your rights?
He doesn't wait for my answer.
I'm shoved in the back of the police cruiser and hauled down to the police station, taken right to an interrogation room and left there.
An hour passes, maybe two.
It feels like forever until the door opens again and the detectives walk in with my lawyer on their heels. The man doesn't greet me. It's pointless. He's here to do business and he gets right down to it.
"What's my client charged with?"
"He's not charged with anything yet," Jameson says casually, taking a seat across from me. "He's being detained under suspicion of murder."
"Which murder?"
I nearly laugh at the way my lawyer words that, unable to stop the small smile from tugging my lips, as Jameson stares at him incredulously. It wasn't a "what" murder; it was a "which" murder, like maybe it could be more than one.