“I would like to call my lawyer,” I said.
They looked at each other. Hayes was clearly good, but I’d done this a million times before. There was no way he was going to be able to rattle me.
“We could bring her in,” Fitzgerald said to Hayes. “You said we should do that, right? Bring in Ms. Marquez. We could go to our boss, get special counsel, start an investigation…it’d be an interesting ending to Boston’s first female DA’s career.”
My eyes widened. They could threaten me, but threatening Ruby? Now that got my blood boiling.
I sighed, clenching my jaw. “Am I free to leave?”
“You’re free to do whatever you want,” Fitzgerald said. “Not without consequence, certainly. But you…do whatever you want, clearly.”
“Yes, yes,” I replied, standing up and waving my now empty cup of coffee at him. “Thank you for the visit, agents. This was lovely. If you’re not going to let me call my lawyer, then we have nothing else to talk about.”
Fitzgerald opened his mouth like he wanted the last word.
I didn’t give it to him.
Instead, I walked out with the kind of swagger that only came from years of knowing when the walls were closing in—and pretending you couldn’t feel them. My shoes echoed against the sterile hallway floor as I made my way toward the exit, past cheap ceiling tiles and worse lighting.
They didn’t try to stop me.
Not this time.
But they would.
That was the thing about men like Hayes and Fitzgerald. They didn’t bluff. They waited. They played long games, slow and methodical. They didn’t need to make me slip—they’d just follow close enough behind until I made a mistake.
I stepped outside into the brittle air and let it hit me.
Not cold. Not sharp.
Just real.
I reached for my phone. I was going to call the consigliere, but that would get back to Tristan, and I wanted to put it off for as long as possible.
No—I called Liam.
Because I needed a plan.
Because Tristan was going to find out.
And when he did, I wasn’t sure who he’d come for first—me… or her.
Chapter Seven: Ruby
The hospital felt like it was closing in on me. The yellowing ceiling panels, the chemical smell of bleach, the constant flicker of fluorescent lights.
The way it hurt every time I tried to swallow.
Everything felt like it was eating at me.
But that wasn’t it. Not really.
It was Kieran.
Intervening like it was nothing. Like confessing to murder and throwing himself at the mercy of the FBI was on the same level as buying me a coffee. I didn’t know whether I wanted to thank him or slap him so hard that he wouldn’t show his face for another eight years.
“Did you know he’d do that?” Alek asked, breaking the silence. We’d been sitting here in shock ever since he came back in, now–apparently–Kieran’s attorney, too.
