Chapter 247
Lance
The precinct doors hadn't even fully closed behind me before the vultures descended.
Camera flashes erupted like a miniature sun going supernova, each burst searing white-hot spots across my vision. The questions came in a cacophony—overlapping, indistinguishable, desperate. I caught fragments: "Mr. Lawson, did you order the attack?" "Is it true your nephew is on the run?" "What about the organized crime allegations?"
I kept my expression neutral, almost bored, as two uniformed officers flanked me and practically dragged me toward the interior doors. One of them—stocky, red-faced, sweating despite the air conditioning—shoved his shoulder against the entrance to the bullpen while his partner yanked my arm with more force than strictly necessary.
The heavy door slammed shut, muffling the chaos to a dull roar.
"This way," the red-faced cop growled, his hand clamped around my bicep like a vice. "We're taking you to an interview room."
I let them pull me forward a few steps before I stopped walking entirely. The abruptness of it made both officers stumble slightly, turning back to glare at me with identical expressions of irritation.
"Well," I said, my voice carrying that particular brand of casual indifference I'd perfected over years of board meetings and hostile takeovers. "Wouldn't it be simpler to just conduct this interview out there? In front of the cameras?" I gestured vaguely toward the lobby with my chin. "I came here voluntarily to answer questions. I'm not a criminal. Let's not treat this like I am."
The red-faced cop's expression darkened to something approaching purple. "Lance," he spat, making my name sound like an insult. "I know you used to be one of the richest bastards on Wall Street, but this is a police station. Right now, you're a suspect. You need to cooperate with us."
I allowed myself a small smile—the kind that never quite reached my eyes. "Well, then I suggest we move quickly. I'm on a rather tight schedule."
The other officer, younger and leaner with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow, actually laughed at that. It wasn't a pleasant sound. While his partner fumed, he produced a pair of handcuffs from his belt with practiced ease and snapped them around my wrists with unnecessary tightness. The metal bit into my skin, cold and unforgiving.
"Quick?" Scar-brow said, still smirking. "Well, I've got news for you, Mr. Lawson. Chief Calloway Brennan himself is going to be conducting your interrogation. So I'm afraid you'll just have to make yourself comfortable and wait."
Calloway.
The name hit me like a physical blow, though I kept my expression carefully blank. Calloway Brennan. Of course. The same detective who'd closed my mother's case ten years ago with indecent haste, rubber-stamping it as suicide without so much as a second glance at the inconsistencies. The same man who'd stood in our living room, hat in hand, and told my father with false sympathy that these things happened in families under pressure. The same man who'd somehow climbed the ranks from detective to chief in the intervening decade.
Thomas's doing, no doubt. My uncle had always been good at cultivating useful friendships.
The officers led me down a corridor that smelled of stale coffee and industrial disinfectant. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow-green pallor. We passed several closed doors before stopping at one near the end of the hall. Red-face opened it to reveal a small, windowless room containing nothing but a metal table bolted to the floor and four mismatched chairs.
"Home sweet home," Scar-brow said cheerfully, shoving me inside with enough force that I had to catch myself against the table's edge.
The door closed with a heavy, final-sounding clunk. The lock engaged with a sharp click.
And then: silence.
I stood there for a moment, letting my eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting. The walls were that particular shade of institutional beige that seemed designed to leach all hope from the human soul. A mirror dominated one wall—one-way glass, obviously. I wondered who was watching from the other side. Thomas, probably, enjoying the show.
Eventually, I pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, the handcuffs forcing my hands into an awkward position on the table. The metal bit into my wrists as I shifted, trying to find something resembling comfort in this deliberately uncomfortable space.
I glanced at my watch. Ten forty-seven in the morning.
And more importantly—Wesley was alive.
That confirmation—delivered via encrypted message just before I'd walked through the precinct doors—was the only reason I was sitting in this room instead of tearing through the city with a gun in my hand. Operation compromised. Situation critical. Target survived. Returning to Brotherhood. Retribution imminent.
Four sentences that should have filled me with dread but instead unwound a knot of tension I hadn't even realized I'd been carrying.
My nephew had survived last night's bloodbath. Made it past the Corsetti hit squad, past Thomas's traps, and was now regrouping with what remained of the Brotherhood. The plan had gone to hell, but Wesley was still standing. Still fighting.
Stubborn bastard. Just like his father.
Thomas had always underestimated my brother—saw him as the weaker son, the one who'd inherited our mother's softness instead of steel. But I'd watched my brother survive our father's expectations and Arthur's disappointments and still come out fighting. Wesley had that same quality. That same refusal to stay down, no matter how hard you hit him.
I'd spent years trying to beat it out of him with discipline and distance, thinking I was protecting him. All I'd done was forge that resilience into something harder. More dangerous.