Chapter 10 - THE INTERROGATION
Z
The library at the university was my sanctuary. Its towering mahogany bookshelves and the persistent scent of old paper and dust provided a stark contrast to the sterile hospitals and the hyper-vigilant atmosphere of the Pascale estate. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was buried beneath a pile of neuroanatomy textbooks, preparing for my upcoming practicals.
My bodyguards were stationed at the ends of the aisle. They gave me space, but their presence was a constant, heavy reminder of my new reality. I highlighted a passage on the cerebellum, my eyes burning from lack of sleep.
"Interesting choice of reading material, Ms. Fitzgerald. Though I imagine you’ve had plenty of practical experience with trauma lately."
I froze. The voice didn’t belong to a student, and it certainly didn't belong to a professor.
I looked up slowly. Sitting across the long oak table from me was a man in his late forties. He wore a cheap beige trench coat over an off-the-rack suit. His hair was thinning, and his eyes, a pale, watery blue, held a chillingly analytical gleam. He hadn't triggered my bodyguards. He had slipped in completely unnoticed.
"I'm sorry, do I know you?" I asked, my voice remarkably steady. Six months ago, I would have stuttered. Now, I simply assessed him the way Massimo assessed a threat.
The man smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. He reached into his coat pocket. My heart hammered, but he only pulled out a worn leather wallet. He flipped it open, sliding it across the table. A gold badge caught the dim library light.
Special Agent Thomas Harris. Federal Bureau of Investigation. Organized Crime Division.
"I’m a big fan of your work, Tessa," Agent Harris said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. "You’ve achieved what dozens of federal task forces couldn't. You got closer to Massimo Pascale than anyone in the last decade."
I closed my textbook with a heavy thud, sliding the badge back to him. "I am a physical therapist, Agent Harris. I provided medical care to a patient who suffered severe spinal trauma. That is the extent of my involvement. If you want to discuss my clinical methods, make an appointment with my supervisor."
Harris chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. He reached into a manila folder resting on his lap and pulled out a series of glossy eight-by-ten photographs. He spread them out across the table like a morbid deck of tarot cards.
My breath caught in my throat.
The photos were from the shipyard. They showed the gruesome aftermath of the shootout with Vincenzo. Bloodstained concrete, shattered glass, and the lifeless bodies of Vincenzo's top lieutenants. Then, he placed the final photo down. It was grainy, clearly taken from a distant surveillance camera, but there was no mistaking the subjects. It was Massimo and me, standing in the pouring rain, locked in an embrace with Vincenzo’s body just yards away.
"A physical therapist," Harris mused, tapping the photo with a pen. "Tell me, Tessa, does your curriculum usually involve accessory to murder? What about fleeing the scene of a massacre? Or harboring an international fugitive?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," I lied seamlessly. "That photo is heavily distorted. It could be anyone."
"Don't play stupid, Tessa; you have a 4.0 GPA," Harris snapped, his genial facade dropping instantly. "We know Massimo is consolidating the port authorities. We know Vincenzo was taken out to secure the trafficking routes. And we know you are his weakness. New York knows it, too."
That made my blood run cold. New York.
"Why are you here, Agent Harris?" I asked, leaning in, dropping the innocent student act entirely.
"I’m here to offer you a way out," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Commission in New York has put a hit out on Massimo. They aren't going to just take a cut; they’re going to wipe him off the map. And they are going to start with you, just to make him bleed first. When they come, Massimo’s men won't be enough to stop them."
He slid a plain white business card across the table.
"I can put you in witness protection tonight," Harris continued. "You can finish your doctorate in California, or London, or wherever you want. Fully funded. Clean slate. All you have to do is testify that Massimo Pascale was present at the shipyard and pulled the trigger on his uncle. You give us Massimo, and we give you your life back."
I looked at the card. It was blank except for a single phone number.
I thought about the night Massimo was shot at the safehouse. I thought about the way he had dropped his gun—surrendered his empire and his life—just because Vincenzo had a pistol to my head. He had chosen me over everything.
I picked up the business card. Agent Harris smiled, a victorious gleam in his watery eyes.
Without breaking eye contact, I tore the card perfectly in half. Then I tore it again. I let the pieces fall onto the table like snow.
"I already have my life," I said, my voice dripping with ice. "And if you ever approach me without a subpoena again, Agent Harris, I will have the Pascale family lawyers tie you up in so much litigation your grandchildren will be fighting off subpoenas. Have a good afternoon."
I stood up, grabbing my bag. My two bodyguards immediately stepped forward, sensing the shift in my demeanor. Harris didn't try to stop me. He just sat there, looking at the torn pieces of paper.
"He's going to get you killed, Tessa!" Harris called out as I walked away. "Or worse, he's going to turn you into a monster just like him!"
May you like
I didn't look back. I walked out of the library, the winter wind hitting my face, and pulled out my phone. I dialed Massimo’s private number. He answered on the first ring.
"We have a problem," I said, my voice trembling not from fear, but from a dark, newfound fury. "The FBI was just here. And they know about New York."
