He found he fervently hoped it was in bed.
Good god, what had Destiny done by putting these ideas in his head?
Before he could come up with a good answer, one of the weekend dispatchers poked his head through the door.
“Hey! Patrick! Holding just called looking for you. Your guy is talking.”
“Great. Okay.” Patrick checked his email and started to print the report from the interviewer. Thrusting his chair away from his desk, he stood and grabbed his coat from behind him.
Brandon didn"t move, days of Patrick avoiding him making him unsure.
“You coming?” Patrick asked, one brow up.
Just like old times. Brandon smiled his first real smile in days. “You bet.” By sunset, Patrick could hardly believe the day he was having.
He and Brandon had gone to speak with his B&E vics and come up with gold—a flash drive detailing the very illegal activities of the Benedetto clan and some of Boston"s biggest political names.
They"d hauled ass with the evidence back over to the station and handed it off to the techies who would process and log the evidence. Patrick had barely planted his butt back in his chair when his phone had rung.
It was Brandon. “You"re not going to believe this.” At that point, he might have believed any damn thing.
“I"ll be right there.” He threw the phone back in the cradle and grabbed his coat again.
Hours later, he and Brandon stepped out of a secure room at Massachusetts General Hospital, stood in the over-bright, sterile hallway and stared at each other.
“Did that just happen?” Brandon asked, breaking their stunned silence.
Patrick pictured the battered and broken man they"d just questioned and shook his head. “Jesus. How can a man do that to his own son?” Brandon shrugged and shook his head, without answer. Neither of them had ever seen anything like it. Mario Benedetto"s son, Damian, had been responsible for losing the flash drive that they"d recovered. Apparently the meathead had gone with the idea that he could improve his “enforcement” wing of the family business if he had the complete list of clients, so he"d helped himself to a file off the bookkeeper"s computer, 44
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then promptly lost the damn thing. He"d tried to retrieve it, thus the B&Es Patrick had been chasing down. When he didn"t succeed, he had confessed to Dad.
Safe to say Dad was pissed. Sending his henchmen to get the drive, he"d held at least one or two in reserve to beat his own son to within an inch of his life. They"d told Damian they were sent to teach him a lesson.
And learn it he did. Only the lesson that Damian absorbed, along with countless kicks to the ribs, a broken arm and nose, an eye that might not ever recover and facial scars that would stay with him for life, was that Dad was a psycho who couldn"t be trusted. What he"d learned was that he"d be a hell of a lot safer if Dad were in prison.
In exchange for immunity, Damian Benedetto had agreed to testify against his own father.
This was fucking huge.
Patrick jumped when his cell phone started to vibrate. He flipped it open and smiled when he saw the call was from Ryanne Choate. She was their friend and normally his favorite Assistant District Attorney. Today she was just about his favorite person on earth.
“Hey, Ry. Got some good news for me?”
When she answered, he looked up and smiled at Brandon. Their eyes met and for one heart-stopping moment, he couldn"t decide if he wanted to high-five or kiss the man. Maybe he"d just do both.
This might be the biggest day of either of their careers and there wasn"t anyone else he"d want to share it with.
If Patrick didn"t stop staring at him like that, Brandon was not going to be held responsible for his actions. It had been a long day, a longer week and adrenaline was making him giddy. When Patrick looked at him, his smile wide, dimple flashing, eyes sparkling, the blood being forced through his system by his pounding heart all shot south.
Patrick hung up and slid his phone back into his pocket.
“Well?” Brandon asked, knowing the answer but needing to hear the words.
“We got the warrant. We can go arrest Mario Benedetto,” Patrick said, sounding as amazed as Brandon felt.
“Holy crap.”
Patrick laughed. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
They left the hospital at a jog, crossing the ambulance bay to the garage and Patrick"s truck. Neither spoke as they drove to the station and met with the rest of the team before mounting up and heading out to the North End. The Task Force kept a tight watch on old Mario, so they knew he was at his restaurant, Bella , on Hanover Street, the main drag in the old Italian neighborhood. They even knew he"d be sitting at 45
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the back corner table in the private dining room in the basement, surrounded by his men and his family.
Hell, it was Sunday, so they could be reasonably certain that he was eating the veal marsala with a side of lasagna and going to drink one more glass of wine than he did the other six nights a week.
And tonight Brandon and Patrick were going to walk in there and arrest him.
Holy fucking shit.
Standing in a doorway just a few yards down the street from Bella"s bright windows, Brandon watched the nose of the SWAT van ease to the corner on the next street up.
Patrick stood close in the tight space, checking his gun and tightening the straps on his Kevlar vest. The pull of Patrick"s tight shirt over thick
