Crescendo - B*M* Book #1 SAMPLE

Chapter 2 | Spark

"And yet, my current charge is 'trespassing,' Detective," I say. "A minor offense."

He flushes, his jaw clenching. Mr. Van Hallen is one of a million: a carbon copy of the same cop to hound my trail since the day I first shoplifted candy from a Quick-Go Mart. They get off on the heroics; making the world a safer place. Little do they know that when you put down one rabid dog, two more are already ready to take its place.

Surprisingly, Mr. Van Hallen cuts right to the chase rather than climb onto a soapbox. "Vincent Stacatto. Ever hear of him?"

I shrug as best as I can despite the handcuffs that secure my hands to the table. "I can't say that I have, Detective."

"Don't worry," Van Hallen assures me. "You'll hear of him soon enough. While you were trading sexual favors for a few cigarettes in this jungle gym they call a prison, Vinny Stacatto's been running roughshod all over your old territory."

I smile without an ounce of hostility in my expression. "I'd say my ass is worth a lot more than a few fucking cigarettes, Detective."

Van Hallen grunts. "Let's not play around, Vialle. While your impending release certainly is no cause for celebration...you have a chance to really do some good for this city."

I laugh. I can't help it. My eyes drift from Van Hallen to seek out the clock hanging on the wall beyond his head. Twenty minutes.

"Oh I don't know about that, Detective. I can think of a few good things the city might be able to do for me, though."

Van Hallen struggles to keep his composure. I recognize him from the slew of pigs the DA paraded in and out during my sentencing hearing. Their spiel had pretty much followed the same lines. This man is dangerous—we may not have evidence that he's dangerous, but mark my words. He's dangerous. How much had the commissioner had to bribe him to come here on his hands and knees?

"Twelve murders," Van Hallen starts. "Three counts of extortion. Human trafficking. Those are the crimes we suspect Stacatto of committing this month alone."

I extend my fingers, observing them in the blinding light. "Sounds like you've been busy, Detective."

"This isn't a fucking game," Van Hallen snarls. He's playing the bad cop routine without his "good cop" wingman. It's an amusing effort. I smile again and watch as his face becomes an alarming shade of red. "Let's try another name, huh?" he suggests. "Mathew 'Mack' Spigotti? Arnold Mackenzie?"

"Mackenzie...Mackenzie..." I raise an eyebrow and meet the detective's gaze head on. "Hm...Nope, doesn't ring a bell."

"So all those years you ran around with those two in the streets never left an impression, huh? What about when you fought for Dino Mulligan?"

"Must be all those favors for cigarettes I had to earn," I say coldly. "My memory's a little fuzzy."

"Okay," Van Hallen spits. He reshuffles his papers and tries again. "Espesido Vialle. You've got to recognize at least one of those names."

"One of them," I admit, my entire body tensing the same way the hackles rise on a bulldog when someone gets too close to its territory. His mentioning of Espi is a dangerous game to play. The bastard knows it: he doesn't make eye contact this time.

"You wouldn't be threatening me, detective," I say, keeping my voice level. "Now would you?"

Van Hallen doesn't answer me directly. He rummages through the pages of my file and surfaces with three pictures which he sets out in a line, just out of my reach. One is of a scrawny kid with tousled black hair barely contained by the hood he has pulled over his head. His blue eyes stare off into the distance—it's obvious he didn't know the picture was being taken. There's a cigarette sticking out of his mouth and I scoff at the sight. Little fucker knew better than to court cancer with that shit. He's grown up though, in the years since I've been gone. His face has filled out, the baby fat melted down to reveal our inherited bone structure. He has the makings of a mustache budding over his lip. The longer I stare at the picture, the more I can sense something tense inside of me. A human might refer to the emotion as guilt. I'll write it off as irritation.