Page 128 of Fallen Rook

“Got a minute?”

“I’m putting my final notes on the Magnusson case before handing it to Zeke.”

“That’s not due till tomorrow morning.” He waved me off. “Come with me—you gotta see this.”

There weren’t enough words in the English language to describe how much I didn’t want to be in his presence. However, as Freddie Mercury said—the show must go on.

I stood and plucked my coat from the hanger, meeting him at the door. “Where are we headed?”

“Not far.” His wolfish grin tugged wider at the corners. “One Police Plaza.”

NYPD headquarters.

Keeping my expression neutral, I fell into step with him. “What exotic creature have they entrapped now?”

“Just wait till you see, Thomas…”

We walked across the hallway, into the elevator, then stepped out of the building. We marched across a cool Lafayette Street—buzzing with unassuming Christmas shoppers, professionals, and mothers pushing strollers—past the iconic St. Andrews Plaza. The familiar gold lettering of Police Plaza greeted me. Red-bricked walls stared back at me. We went past reception, Sully practically bouncing on the balls of his feet. He reeked of too much alcohol and not enough sleep. Dread gathered in the pit of my stomach. I forced myself to look bored. A lot was riding on the next few hours.

“Central booking’s this way.” Sully snapped his fingers, pointing as he guided me through the place like I didn’t visit it on a weekly basis. I let him have his moment. The clinks of our smart shoes ricocheted off the walls. My heart lodged in my throat.

All good things must come to an end.

I’d known that since the dawn of time.

And yet I wasn’t ready for the next part. But I knew I never would be, either.

“Ta-da.” Sully stopped in front of a small, dingy cell in a darkened corner of the room. Rusty bars barriered a tiny space with one bench. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

And look, I did.

At the person occupying the bench, sitting in pristine silence and calm, legs spread with his knees turned out, oozing dark aura. The king of kings. He wore an impeccably stylish suit—Armani slacks, dark Tom Ford turtleneck, and a raincoat, the perfect film noir idol. A familiar, velvety lock fell down his forehead, daring me to sweep it back up.

Then he looked up. Soft honey eyes framed by a ruthless face.

The man who was in my arms just a few hours ago, last night, thrashing and moaning and kissing me, whispering forbidden things into my ear.

Vincenzo fucking Ferrante.

A mafioso enforcer.

A fucked-up, closeted kid.

My Butterfly.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Enzo

“Good job.” Tom awarded Sully with a brief pat on the back, his eyes grazing my face fleetingly, before landing back on his partner. He cocked an eyebrow. “What’d they get him for?”

“Extortion.” A skeletal, elderly marshal appeared from the bowels of the shadowy hallway, joining the two feds. “At a laundromat not too far from here. The owner called; we have CCTV footage of money exchanging hands from a few hours ago.”

“Sound?”

The marshal shook his head. “But we have a testimony, full report.”

“Did he make any calls?” Tom flicked his wrist to glance at his watch, radiating authority and detachment.