Chapter 108 Chapter 108
Damien’s POV
I stood there facing Detective Sarah Morrison, feeling the weight of her accusation. This was the detective who’d been sniffing around my operations, trying to uncover my network of deals and connections. The one who couldn’t be bought or intimidated.
It was partly why I’d come here in the first place to speak with the chief of police about getting her reassigned or at least redirected away from me.
But before Sarah could dig any deeper, before she could continue her confrontational interrogation in the middle of the police station lobby, a door opened down the hallway.
“Morrison!” A sharp, commanding voice cut through the air. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
The chief officer strode into view, his face red with anger, his bulk moving with surprising speed for a man of his size.
“Sir, I was just…” Sarah started.
“I don’t care what you were just doing,”
He interrupted, his voice loud enough that other officers turned to look. “You don’t interrogate civilians in my lobby without proper cause or procedure. My office. Now.”
But then his eyes landed on me, and I saw recognition flash across his face.
“Mr. Alejandro,” he said, his tone shifting to something more professional, almost deferential. “I apologize for the inconvenience. Please, come with me to my office. We can speak privately.”
Sarah’s face went pale, then red with anger as she realized what was happening. “Chief, this man is….”
“Detective Morrison, you’re dismissed,”
He said sharply. “Return to your desk. We’ll discuss your behavior later.”
“But sir…”
“NOW, Detective,” he barked.
Sarah looked between us, her jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscles working. Then she turned on her heel and stalked away, her footsteps heavy with barely contained fury.
He gestured for me to follow him, and we walked through the station to his corner office.
He closed the door behind us and immediately moved to close the blinds, giving us privacy from the rest of the station.
“I apologize for that,” he said, moving to sit behind his large desk. “Morrison is…
zealous. Sometimes to a fault.”
“She’s a problem,” I said bluntly, not bothering with pleasantries. “I need her off my case. Find someone more pliable to handle the investigation into my compound, or I’ll be forced to leak certain information I have about you.”
His face went even redder, and I saw fear flash in his eyes. He knew exactly what information I was referring to.
“Damien, you know I’d help you if I could,”
He said, his voice taking on a pleading quality.
“But my hands are tied on this one.”
“Your hands are never tied,” I said coldly. “You’re the chief of police. You assign cases. You can reassign them.”
“Not this time,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “Morrison isn’t just a local detective. She’s federal.”
I felt my stomach drop. “What?”
“She’s a federal agent,” Patterson explained, his voice low. “Technically she’s a detective on loan from the FBI. They sent her here specifically because of the ongoing feud you have with the Morelli family. It’s gaining federal attention, Damien. The violence, the territory disputes, the bodies piling up..it’s too big to ignore anymore.”
I felt rage building in my chest. “You’re telling me the FBI is involved?”
“I’m telling you that I have no authority over Morrison,” he said. “She doesn’t answer to me. She answers to federal supervisors. I can’t reassign her. I can’t influence her investigation. All I can do is stay out of her way and hope she doesn’t start digging into things that would expose our… arrangement.”
My hands clenched into fists. This was worse than I’d thought. Much worse.
A local detective could be managed, controlled, bought off or intimidated. But a federal agent? That was a completely different problem.
I took a breath, forcing myself to think strategically. “Fine. Then I need something else from you.”
“What?” He asked warily.
“Whatever surveillance tape you collected from my house on the day of the shooting,” I said. “I want it. All of it.”
He shook his head immediately. “We didn’t get any tape. Your security system was completely destroyed during the attack.“
“Nothing?” I repeated, not believing him.
“Nothing,” he confirmed. “I’m sorry, Damien. Whatever footage your cameras captured was lost in the attack.”
I slammed my hand down on his desk so hard that his coffee cup jumped, spilling liquid across the polished surface. “You’re telling me I have NOTHING? No evidence, no footage, no way to identify who else might be working with the Morellis?”
“Your house is no longer under investigation,” he offered, as if that was some consolation. “We’ve released the scene. You can return whenever you want to begin repairs.”
“I don’t give a damn about repairs!” I shouted. “I need to know who betrayed me! I need to find the traitors in my organization before they strike again!”
He held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Damien, I understand your frustration. But there’s nothing more I can do. The evidence is gone. The investigation is winding down. And Morrison is watching everything I do. I can’t help you the way I used to.”
I stared at him for a long moment, seeing the fear and helplessness in his eyes, and realized he was telling the truth. He couldn’t help me. Or wouldn’t, because he was too scared of federal exposure.
Either way, I was on my own.
I turned and stormed out of his office without another word, ignoring the stares of other officers as I marched through the station and back to my car.
I needed answers. Needed to know who I could trust.
And there was only one person who might have those answers.
I drove across the city to the secret hospital where Marco was being kept. The underground facility that officially didn’t exist, where we treated injuries and illnesses that couldn’t go through normal medical channels.
The doctor met me at the entrance, his expression grave.
“Mr. Alejandro,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here. Marco has been through some complications.”
My heart dropped. “What kind of complications?”
“He had a series of seizures earlier today,” the doctor explained as we walked through the sterile hallways. “Three separate episodes. We managed to stabilize him, but it was touch and go for a while.”
“Is he going to survive?” I asked, fear making my voice harsh.
“Yes,” the doctor said. “He pulled through. And actually, there’s been some improvement. He’s regained limited mobility in his right hand. Just one finger so far, but it’s progress.”
We reached Marco’s room, and the doctor pushed open the door.
Marco lay in the hospital bed, tubes and wires connecting him to various machines. His face was still pale and drawn, covered in healing bruises and cuts. But his eyes were open and alert.
They tracked to me as I entered, and I saw recognition there. Relief.
“Marco,” I said, moving to his bedside. “Thank God you’re alive. Thank God you made it.”
Marco’s mouth moved, trying to form words, but no sound came out. Frustration crossed his face.
“Don’t try to talk,” I said quickly. “Your voice box is still healing. The doctors say it’s going to take time.”
Marco’s eyes filled with tears of frustration. He clearly had something urgent to tell me, something important, but couldn’t communicate it.
Then I saw his right hand move. Just slightly. His index finger twitching.
The doctor noticed too. “He’s been trying to communicate,” the doctor said. “Using his finger. We gave him a pad and some paint. He managed to leave you a message.”
The doctor held up a small white pad. On it, drawn shakily but unmistakably, was a large red dot.
Just a single red dot. Nothing else.
I stared at it, trying to understand what Marco was trying to tell me.
“What does this mean?” I asked, looking at Marco. “What are you trying to say?”
Marco’s eyes were desperate, pleading with me to understand. His finger moved again, pointing at the red dot, then making a circular motion.
Circle. Red. Danger.