Page 84 of Twisted Devotion

“One of our men was arrested at a club,” Matteo says.

I grab the nearest dish towel, wiping my hands as my mind shifts gears.

“Which precinct?”

“The 96th.”

I swear under my breath.The 96th precinct is a problem. Their captain recently changed; the new one isn’t on our payroll.He’s a wild card. Someone who couldruinmy plans—or cost mefar morethan I’m willing to give. And Ihatewalking into a situation where I’m the one asking for a favor first.

The upper hand isgonebefore I even step through the door.

I turn to Matteo. “Get me a bargaining chip.”

He nods, already dialing a number on his phone.

When I glance at Aria, she’s watching me, a small frown creasing her brows—worried. The sight of itdoes something tome.

“I’ll be right back,” I say.

She nods, but the concern in her eyes lingers.

Matteo and I leave the kitchen.

With every step toward the front of the house, the warmth of that moment—the soft,domesticease—fades, replaced by the cold reality ofwho I amandwhat I do.

By the time I slide into the car, the softness I felt in the kitchen is a distant memory.

We reach the precinct in under fifteen minutes. The air inside reeks of stale coffee, sweat, and desperation—afamiliarcocktail in places like this. Officers move around the room, some in uniform, others in plain clothes, pretendingnotto notice me. But I see the glances—the flickers of recognition.

Theyknowwho I am.

Behind the bars of the holding cell, I spot Sergio. His lip is split, a bruise forming on his cheek—but otherwise, he lookscalm. He straightens when his eyes meet mine, relief washing over his face.

I step closer, voice low and steady. “Everything’s fine,” I tell him. “You’ll be out soon.”

Sergio nods, trusting me—because he has no other choice.

I turn away, heading toward the captain’s office, leaving Matteo with Sergio and the other officers.

The door is slightly ajar as if he’s beenexpectingme.

I push it open.

The captain sits behind a wooden desk cluttered with papers and files. Early fifties. Thinning hair. Sharp eyes that screamambition. He gestures to the chair in front of him without bothering to look up.

I sit. The leather creaks softly beneath me. Before I can speak, he finally lifts his gaze and smirks.

“I know who you are,Mr. Paolo.”

Good. That saves me time.

I lean back, my voice calm.

“Then we’ll skip the introductions.” I meet his gaze, unblinking. “Let’s get to business.”

He doesn’t waste time pretending to beoffendedby my tone. He knows the game.

“Your man wasn’t just arrested for assault,” he says, flipping open a file. “We found drugs in his system, too.”

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