Chapter 7 - The Interrogation Room
|
The sterile, bright lights of the Boston precinct interrogation room hummed annoyingly. Billy sat at a metal table, her right hand heavily bandaged, wearing a borrowed police department sweatshirt.
Across the table sat Detective Miller, a tired-looking man who had worked Eleanor’s cold case five years ago.
"You understand, Miss Ror," Miller sighed, rubbing his temples, "that storming a gala and accusing the fiancé of the biggest mob boss in the city of murder is usually a great way to end up in the harbor."
"I had the documentary crew filming," Billy said quietly. "If he killed me in that room, he would have done it on camera."
"Santangelo doesn't care about cameras," Miller scoffed. "He cares about loyalty. Sabine admitted she asked Marco to scare your sister. Marco is Santangelo’s right hand. If Marco organized the hit, Rafe authorized it."
"Rafe didn't know," Billy stated firmly.
Miller raised an eyebrow. "You’re defending the mafia boss?"
"I’m telling you what I saw in his eyes when Sabine confessed," Billy replied, leaning forward. "He didn't know she used his men for a petty fashion dispute. He was furious that she brought heat to his organization over something so sloppy."
The heavy metal door of the interrogation room clicked open.
Rafe Santangelo walked in. He wasn't in handcuffs. He walked with the calm, arrogant authority of a man who owned the building. Two expensive-looking lawyers flanked him, but he waved them back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
Detective Miller immediately stood up. "Mr. Santangelo, you are not authorized to be in here."
"I’m not here as a suspect, Detective," Rafe said smoothly, pulling out the metal chair opposite Billy. "I’m here as a concerned employer checking on injured staff."
Miller glared at him, but knew better than to push a man who had the police commissioner on speed dial. "Five minutes. Then I need her statement on record."
Miller left the room, leaving Billy entirely alone with the man whose empire she had just dragged into the spotlight.
Rafe looked at her bandaged hand. "Did they give you pain medication?"
"I don't want your pity, Mr. Santangelo," Billy said coldly.
"I don't pity you, Billy," Rafe replied, a dark, genuine respect in his eyes. "I pity the men who underestimated you. My lieutenant, Marco, is currently sitting in a holding cell down the hall. He confessed to orchestrating the hit on your sister. He acted without my authorization as a favor to Sabine."
Billy’s breath hitched. The confirmation of her sister’s murder, finally spoken aloud, felt like a physical blow.
"Why are you telling me this?" Billy whispered, tears stinging her eyes.
"Because you forced the truth into the light," Rafe said, leaning forward. "You dismantled a five-year conspiracy with a tray of wine glasses. You brought down a fraud, and you exposed a rat in my organization."
He reached into his pocket and slid a small, heavy black card across the metal table.
"I owe you a debt, Billy Ror," Rafe stated. "When you are finished here, you do not go back to Dorchester. You and your mother are moving into a secure suite at the Windmir. My personal doctors will handle her care. Your financial struggles are permanently over."
May you like
Billy stared at the card. "I don't want your dirty money."
Rafe smiled, a cold, terrifying expression. "It isn't dirty money. It’s a settlement for a workplace injury. Take the card, Billy. Or I will simply buy the bank that holds the mortgage on your house and sign it over to you anyway."
