Stephan

I stared at the stupid prick on the other side of the interrogation table, with my hands folded on top of it, grinding my teeth together. Anger seared through me. I was blind with rage and sick of having FBI agents take turns asking me questions. They were out of their minds if they believed I would ever tell them a single fucking thing. I wasn’t my father. I didn’t turn on my family.

“How well did you know Mark Parisi?”

I gave him a bored look, which wasn’t forced.

Admitting I’d ever helped Mark or Senator Parisi would only make me look guilty. Did I threaten a United States Senator? Fuck, yeah. Was it stupid? Of course. But I wasn’t about to admit to shit.

“Is it true you had an argument with Mark Parisi on the night of his death?”

I narrowed my eyes at him, shooting daggers in his direction.

Where the hell did he get that idea?

He knew he hit a nerve with his question. Not the smartest move on my part to show even the slightest reaction.

“Did you push Mark Parisi from the rooftop on the night of July twenty-first?”

I could see where this was going. Senator Parisi had set me up to take the fall for his son’s death. After Isabella made a public claim at Mark’s funeral, reporters were looking into the accident. No one— not even the police—could find evidence of foul play. How the hell did they think they could pin Mark’s death on me? There weren’t any cameras on the roof. No one saw him fall. The only evidence was his body flattened on the sidewalk.

When I’d approached Senator Parisi with the paternity results and accused him of murdering Mark, I had no idea he would use that conversation against me. I was only trying to buy Isabella’s freedom. We didn’t have a lot of options. He watched every move Isabella made and had her calls traced and recorded. His influence made him dangerous, too powerful to escape.

“I want to talk to my lawyer,” I growled at the man on the other side of the table.

His jaw flexed. He opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something, and stopped himself. Agent Conklin placed his palms on the table and pushed himself up from the chair, staring at me with hate filled eyes.

I wanted to smack the stupid look from his face. The charade had gone on for long enough. For the first few hours I was in federal custody, they asked me question after question, all with no response. I wouldn’t tell them a damn thing. My father raised me not to talk to cops, even if he didn’t follow his own advice.

Anything I said could have been used against me in court. I wasn’t a lawyer. I didn’t know every loophole of the law. So, I did the only thing I knew how to do in the situation and kept my mouth shut. It was my shot at leaving the building. One wrong move and Isabella would be visiting me behind bars for the next decade.

Agent Conklin left the room without another word. I let out a sigh of relief that my father’s advisor would be there soon. For all I knew, my lawyer was already there, and they were interfering with my civil rights in an attempt to get information out of me. The agents who questioned me were on Senator Parisi’s payroll. That asshole followed through on his promise to take away my freedom.

I would never back down to him. He didn’t scare me. The threat of prison didn’t bother me either. It was having Isabella taken away from me that worried me most.

But how did they get proof of my crime? Was it fabricated? Was all of this a ruse? That was the only question I wanted to be answered.

An hour later, Paul Basile, the family lawyer, waltzed into the interrogation room with a briefcase in hand, dressed in a thousand dollar suit. It was the middle of the night, and yet he looked like a Wall Street broker ready to start his day. I was so damn tired I propped my elbow up on the table and leaned into it, fighting sleep.

Paul closed the door behind him, set the briefcase on the table, and took a seat across from me. “Don’t look so miserable, kid. I’ll get you out of here in no time. You didn’t tell them anything, right?”

I frowned. “Are you serious? No, of course not.”

“I asked to see you earlier, but they said you were in the middle of being processed.”

“They lied. I’ve been in this room for hours.”

“What did they ask you?”

I looked up at the camera in the corner of the room and pointed at it. “Is that thing on?”

“No, they’re not allowed to record our conversation. That’s the beauty of the attorney-client privilege.”

I crossed my arms over my chest and sighed. “When can I get out of here?”

“Your bail hearing is in the morning.” He opened his briefcase, removed a pad of paper and pen, and set it in front of him. “When the judge asks you how you would like to enter your plea, you say not guilty. They claim they have physical proof of you threatening Senator Parisi.”

“That’s not possible. I didn’t leave a trail. Whatever they have on me, the Senator made up.”

“It’s an audio recording.” Paul scribbled on the paper in front of him, his eyes focused.

“What did you hear?”

“I haven’t heard it yet. They were about to play it for you before you asked for a lawyer. You’ll be asked to confirm the voice on the tape. Don’t answer them. Say nothing.”

I nodded. “Same as I’ve been doing.”

“Your old man trained you well.”

If you only knew, I wanted to say.

I wondered how many people were aware my father was a federal informant. Paul was his advisor and one of his oldest friends. He had to know.

A knock on the door ended our short conversation. Two agents strolled into the room, one with a folder and tape recorder in his hand.

Agent Conklin sat next to his partner, glaring at me. “Are you ready to talk?”

Here we go.

“What can you tell us about the kidnapping of Isabella Parisi?”

I had every intention to remain silent, but his words sucked the air from my lungs.