“I don’t know who, but I was more than likely the target.” It’s an honest answer.
“For a man proven innocent, you’re in a lot of trouble lately.”
He has no idea what the past few days have brought, much to my chagrin. “Yeah, well. I went away because they wanted me out of the picture.”
“You know. You look so damn familiar to me,” he says, rubbing his chin.
“Maybe you saw my trial on TV or some shit.”
“No. It’s not that. I’m thinking of a murder victim.” I cock my brow at him. “He worked for your father a long time ago.”
“Really?”
“Yes...and he was married to your mother.”
“What? What the hell did you just tell me?” I bite out in a hushed whisper.
“Listen. I can’t give you more details here.”
“Fine. Let’s go down to the police station and you can fill me in.”
“Sounds good.” I walk over to my security, telling one of them to follow us in my vehicle. I’m not that naïve to trust some random-ass cop especially after the past two years.
I let him take me in his unmarked car and we go to the station.
About halfway there, the silence gets the better of me. “So tell me a little more.”
“I’d just joined the police force when the call came and was the first on the scene. I didn’t have any experience, and he’d been the first death I’d ever seen. I felt sick to my stomach, so as soon as the detective arrived, I’d been told to move along.”
“What did you do after?”
“I took the report and typed it up. They sent me out to canvas the area the next day, but with business offices in the vicinity, most people had already gone home before the shooting occurred.”
We arrive at the station and I can’t help but turn my head in every feasible direction to check for danger. I’d look crazy to anyone else, but Morel is looking around as well. Several officers are staring at us as he leads me to an interrogation room. “Would you like anything to drink?”
“A bottle of water would be good.”
“Okay.” I wait in the room for about twenty seconds when he hands me a water bottle and then excuses himself. “Give me five minutes to get everything together.”
I nod and twist open the cap, guzzling it down in one long drink. I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was until I took the first drink. It’s been one hell of a day, and I have so many questions floating through my mind.
My mind races while he’s gone. I’m anxious for news on Dimitri. I send a text to my guards at the hospital. They reply a minute later. No change yet.
When he comes in, he’s holding a new manila folder. “The case is closed, so you can keep this copy.”
My hands are shaking as I open it up. The first picture I see is my mother posing with a man who looks just like me. This answers the question of my paternity that I planned to ask my mother about.
“Do you think my mother knew?” She looks so happy in the photo, but she married the guy who might have been the one to kill him.
With a negative shake of his head, he says, “No. See, he was an accountant and got mixed up with your...well, Marchetti’s business.” I nod as I listen. “You were born a few days before he was gunned down. Your mother was devastated and because of the way it happened, she thought it was Marchetti and told us so, but then it led us to one of the D’Angelo family members, so we prosecuted him. Two years ago, he was shivved in prison.”
I’m listening to him, but my brain is trying to comprehend what he’s saying, “I don’t know what to say.”
“I’m sorry, but when I saw you, I knew I had to bring it to your attention that I remembered your father’s case. I just didn’t realize you didn’t know anything about it, including that Marchetti wasn’t your biological father.”
“You’ve solved a riddle for me. I’ve been trying to figure out why they would want to bring me down, and now I know that it has to do with my parentage.” I look for his name. Santino Benedetti.
“Holy fuck!” My blood boils. I’d been named after a man I knew nothing about. It breaks my heart. There’s no way I can let this go, and my mother has a lot to answer for. I slam the folder closed and stand, sending my chair backward, too damn frustrated to sit still.
“This doesn’t mean you can go after him.”
“Then what the fuck did you give it to me for?”
“Because you deserved to know.”
“I need to get out of here.” I rub my hand over my face. I’m fucking losing it and I know that the only thing that can make it better is answers and Marchetti’s head on a fucking platter. I scoop up the file and walk to the door.
“Wait. I have a bunch of questions about Dimitri.” Shit—the whole reason Morel came to the hospital in the first place.
Frustrated, I pull out my cell phone, pull up the text messages, and slide it across the table. “Look at these. I got them seconds after the shooting.”
He catches my phone and scrolls through the messages. “Damn it. Wow. Okay. I need a copy of these.”
“I’ll screenshot them and send it to you.” He spits out his cell phone number and I send over the images.
“Do you have anything else besides these?”
“Not about Dimitri, but I recorded a call with my father where he threatened to kill my mother if I didn’t take a meeting with him minutes before the bullets started flying.”
“Do you have it on you?”
“I do.” I play it back and then send the recording to him.
After an hour, he’s made some calls and returns with news. “I want you to go home
