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JAMESI turned back to Roman and noticed him staring at me. True as fuck, a grin started up at the corners of his mouth, almost reaching his eyes. Seriously? That was all it took to crack any kind of expression onto this guy's face? Un-fucking-believable.I leaned over my desk. "You know, we're supposed to be partners, and among other things, that also entails you having my back."Roman's dark brows slanted down. "If I remember correctly, you said you didn't need a partner. Your exact words, I believe, were, 'I don't need any motherfucking middle-aged bastard being my partner.' Ring a bell?""None whatsoever."Roman snorted and got up from his seat. "Whatever, man. Just make sure you keep your nose out of the feds' business with the Bologna. Believe me, you don't need to get caught in the middle of shit like that.""Thanks for the warning, partner.""Anytime." He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and sauntered out of the building. I couldn't believe they teamed me up with his weird-ass There was something seriously wrong with that dude. It was like he just didn't run right. Like the silver Porsche 550 Spyder that James Dean crashed to his death in. No matter how much time and money you put into renovating and fixing it, there would always be something about it that wasn't quite right."Gunner. There's a woman here to see you."I glanced at my watch. She was right on time. Of course, she was. Women like her had punctuality drilled into their pretty little heads from the age of three."Thanks, Larry. Put her in the interrogation room."I got up from my chair and noticed Larry hadn't moved."I said put her in the interrogation room."Larry lifted his brow. "Why the interrogation room?""She's a criminal." I narrowed my eyes."What did she do?""Failed to pay her parking tickets?" It was meant to be a statement, not a question.Larry shook his head. But thank God he didn't press the matter, otherwise, I would have been forced to use the juicy info I had on him and the married Mrs. Galecki from accounting, and I didn't like to waste my little blackmail cards on shit like this.I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and dialed my mother's number. It had been a week since I last called her, and she was probably going to spend the first three minutes of our conversation yelling at me for making her worry.Now was probably not the ideal time to make this kind of personal call, but I wanted the woman currently waiting for me in the interrogation room to sweat a little. I wanted her mind to run in three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circles wondering why I asked her here and then placed her in the interrogation room, of all places.My mom answered on the second ring. "James, is that you?""Yes, Mama, it's me."And then the three-minute scolding started. I sat there listening to her go on and on about how she worried, how it was my duty as her firstborn to check in at least every second day, and that I'd be the cause of her having a heart attack one day."Mom, relax. If you don't calm down, you're going to give yourself a heart attack."I heard her take a breath, and then exhale-just as my sister had taught her. My sister and I both knew how stressed out she could get, especially when it came to the two of us."I know I shouldn't worry, James. But you can at least answer when I call or have the decency to text me back."I closed my eyes, mentally cursing the day my sister decided it would be a good idea to give mom a cell phone for Christmas. Worst fucking idea ever."I'm sorry, Mama. It's just really busy at work." Before allowing her to once again tell me what a bad decision it was for me to become a cop, I continued quickly, "How's Dada doing?""Other than worrying about you and your sister the whole time, he's doing fine.""Is Dada's sugar still under control?""Yes, thank the Lord. But I constantly have to go through his drawers and check for hidden chocolate bars."I snickered, thinking that sounded exactly like Dada. He'd always had a sweet tooth, but unfortunately, his diabetes didn't allow him to indulge."You should come for lunch on Sunday, James. Your father misses you.""I'll try.""I love you, my sweet boy," she said softly, her African accent present with every word. My father was a born and raised American who fell in love with a South African woman while he traveled the world as a pilot. Sounded like a love story out of a damn movie-and it probably was. I never stuck around long enough whenever the topic of their epic love story came up during the conversation. That was the kind of story no kid should hear their parents tell ever.My sister and I didn't have the same accent as our mother, but when it came to looks, we took after her with our inky black hair, dark brown eyes, and year-round tanned skin."I love you too, Mama. I have to go. I'll let you know about Sunday."I hung up before she got a chance to remind me about not waiting too long before I called her again.Glancing at my watch, I smiled. It had been fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of stewing for the woman still waiting for me. My detective ass was willing to bet she was probably sweating like a damn farm animal by now.I took my time as I sauntered in the direction of the interrogation room. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt.Larry passed me as I walked down the hall, and I could see the wheels turning in his head, probably wondering what the hell I was up to. Too bad. This was my case-well, technically, not my case-but I fucking made it my case.I stopped in front of the one-way mirror, and there she was-Vanessa Bologna, daughter of infamous Italian-American mafia boss, Dante Bologna -waiting just for me. It was going to be one hell of a day.πππππJAMES Now, I had to admit, I was slightly disappointed at how cool and calm she looked. She hadn't even broken a sweat during the fifteen minutes she was cramped inside that stinking room without a clue as to what she was doing there.Slanting my head, I continued to look at her. This was the first time I'd seen her in person. All the other two thousand, one hundred and thirteen times I'd seen that face was when I stared at a picture of her in a non-weird, non-perverted kind of way.I'd been keeping a very close eye on the Bologna, studying them-her parents, her two brothers, and her. For the last sixteen months, I'd been glued to every move that my family made. And by now I sure as hell knew a lot about Vanessa Bologna.For instance, I knew she was twenty-four years old, her birthday was February fourteen, fucking Valentine's Day, and she was in her third year at Columbia University Law School. Currently, she was home for summer vacation, one of the three times a year she
πππππππ VANESSAI decided to do this whole fake-public-profile-picture-on-social-media thing myself to protect the little privacy I did have. The issue of privacy was one of the reasons I didn't come home very often. My parents usually had to beg me relentlessly for two months straight before I eventually agreed to visit. I didn't like the way I felt when I was here in town, the way everyone made me feel. As I said, I wasn't stupid. I was not oblivious to what my father did, and neither was the rest of Bostonβthe world, for that matter. Wherever I went, I was labeled as the daughter of the infamous mafia boss everyone knew he was but was unable to prove. I'd long made peace with the knowledge that whispers would always follow me wherever I went, no matter where in the world I was. But here in Boston, my hometown, it wasn't just whisperedβit was screams. No one here even tried to be inconspicuous when they talked about me, about my family. And I hated it. I hated every secon
πππππππ VANESSAThe moment I began making a move for the door, Detective James stopped me with his voice. "We are not done yet, Miss Bologna." I made a slow turn towards him and leaned over the table, getting as close to him as possible. "I have a life I need to share with my one point two followers. I don't want to disappoint them." "I wouldn't want to interfere with that, now, would I?" His eyes darted down to my chest, and then I realized I just shoved my cleavage in his face. "See something you like, Detective?" "Absolutely." He glanced up from my cleavage to my face. "And, unlike you, I'm not afraid to admit it." I bent a little lower, purposely allowing my blouse to gape, even more, making sure he got an eyeful of something he would never have. "Believe me, I'm not afraid to admit when I see something I likeβ¦or want." "That makes you a liar, then." "And what exactly gives you that idea?" "You arching your back so you can shove your tits in my face." His eyes fli
πππππ JAMESIn life, you got two types of women. You got the women who thought they were hot, pretending like they knew how to use their bodies to get a man's attention, but they didn't. Sure, they would probably end up getting a man's attention - or his responsiveness - now and then, but only because seeing how pathetic they were guaranteed a quick and easy lay. Not a good lay, just an easy one. You know, like a good jerk-off in the shower. It didn't satisfy you completely, but it was sufficient to get you through the day. And then you got the kind of women who didn't need to use their bodies to get a man's attention at all. They didn't walk around thinking, "If I sway my ass a little to this side, and then a little to that side, I'll get the men drooling." No. They walked the way they walked, and they talked the way they talked. And without even trying, sexual energy seeped through every pore, sensuality emanating from their every move, and they wore eroticism like a second s
πππππJAMESA month? A fucking month? "Are you serious? You want to take Bambi away from me?""Who the fuck is Bambi?"I tap against the gun at my side. "This sweet little thang right here.""Well, that sweet little thang is no longer yours. Bambi and badge on my desk in five."Goddammit."Way to go, dumbass," Larry sneered from the side.I wanted to smash his face in, but assaulting a fellow officer would be the final nail in my career coffin right now. Besides, I needed to act like a grownup, not letting insults get to me."I knew your brown ass wouldn't last around here."Ah, fuck. How was I supposed to act like the grownup now?"It's African, you fucking tit-head!" I launched myself forward and punched him in the face, hammering that last nail into my now-dead career. And since that career was already bolted shut with a fuck-load of nails, I punched the asshole again. Why? Because I fucking wanted to. It was like trashing the school with toilet paper. You didn't know why the
πππππππVANESSAAbout five years ago, the heat on my father and his activities was pretty intense. Until the Morellos moved in on what my dad called our territory. Then the heat got worse as the Morellos started wreaking havoc on the streets. I wasn't exactly sure what they did, but by the way, my dad and brothers always cursed whenever the subject of the Morellos came up, I'd say it was pretty bad shit.Still scrolling down James' page, I decided there wasn't much else to see or to stalk. So, I went back to my page, contemplating whether I should remove James Gunner as a follower. He was probably using it to keep tabs on me, watching me, waiting for me to slip up so he could get what he wantedβincriminating shit on my family. Plus, now he knew ninety per cent of my status updates were bullshit anyway. What if he called me out on it?While I stared at the screen, a notification popped up saying James Gunner commented on your post.Shit, shit, shit.I slid my finger across the s
πππππJAMESI stepped into my apartment to meet it as neat and perfect as I left it. It was so motherfucking clean that if you wanted, you could sleep inside my toilet. If you took into consideration what my apartment looked like, you'd say I was a neat freak. My sister would die a slow and painful death if she saw this place because she knows she'll never be able to keep up.There were empty beer bottles neatly tucked in the corner of the living room. From where I stood, my kitchen looked as white as snow, all my utensils were shining as if a star had hit them or something. You couldn't find one microwavable plastic instant meal container anywhere in the kitchen sink, and empty cans of soda were nearly nonexistent around the house. Although I used them to quench my morning-after thirst, I made sure there were no traces of them on the counter.The way most people saw it, I was a detective, not a domesticated pansy. I should have much better things to do with my time than cleaning
πππππJAMESRoman stared at me for what felt like a million years. He looked apprehensive as if he was trying to gauge how the formation was going to affect me. After a few more seconds, I couldn't take it again. "Roman!" I grunted, sending him a scowl.Roman rolled his eyes and nodded his head. "Okay, okay, chill. Now answer me this, when did the Morello's move into town, Gunner?""Five years ago," I replied. And then I clicked. I suddenly understood where he was going with this. "But it doesn't fit into the timeframe of all the child disappearances," I reasoned. If what Roman Anderson was trying to tell me was true, then he would have to make it all fit in my head. If not, It was going to be pretty difficult for me to believe him. It wasn't my fault. That was just how detectives were wired.Roman lifted a brow, the corner of his mouth twitching. "If you're as smart as you think you are, you'll know it was about five years ago that drugs started to flow into these streets." He s