Page 90 of Bad Bishop
What did she even see in this bastard?
“What’s the accuracy rate on this shit, anyway?” Enzo flipped his knife shut, dismounting his feet from the desk and leaning to peer at the screen behind Sam’s shoulder.
“About eighty-seven percent, in the correct environment,” Sam grumbled.
“What constitutes a correct environment?”
“No chatty assholes bickering around me, messing with my interviewee,” Sam replied.
Luca and Enzo quieted down. I was glad Achilles was on Crimson Key. I didn’t need a full audience for what was about to unfold. Lila’s privacy mattered to me.
Sam rechecked that all the sensors were correctly applied on Tate and sat back. “Ready?”
Tate gave him another murderous glare. “Take a guess.”
“Is this about Tiernan hijacking your private plane and changing its course mid-flight to New York?” Enzo tapered his eyes. “Because I think we can all agree you’d have done the same for Gia.”
“Doubtful, since I’d had the fucking foresight to assign her security after I married her,” he bit out.
“Much good it did you.” I smirked.
A little over a year ago, I kidnapped his wife while she was under Camorra protection. But this wasn’t what interested me about the conversation. Tate was under the assumption Lila wasrapedafterwe got married. Alternatively, he was setting up the starting point for his elaborate lie.
Tate shook his head, staring at the ceiling. “How did you even find your way to my private plane?”
Easily. Almost everyone in every private airport around New York was in my pocket.
“If I tell you, I’d have to kill you,” I said wryly. “And I need some answers before I do that. Shall we?”
Sam began by asking him simple enough questions—his full name, address, childhood pet names, and so on. It turned out that Tate had an unholy number of pets growing up. None of them made it to maturity, though. Sick little fuck. Sam proceeded by asking him if he attended Luca’s wedding (yes), who he came with (his wife), and where he stayed (at the La Casa Delle Rose, the Ferrantes’ six-star resort).
From there, he moved on to yes or no questions.
“Did you see Raffaella Ferrante at the wedding?” Sam watched the screen intently.
“Yes,” Tate answered.
“Did you speak to her?”
“No.”
“Did you interact with her in a nonverbal way?”
“No.”
“Did you follow her out of the ballroom at approximately ten thirty at night?”
“No.”
“Did you touch her during the entire duration of the night?”
“No.”
Tate’s tone was clipped, his posture and expression bored. I caught Sam’s gaze.
“Well?” I asked.
“He’s not bluffing.” Sam tilted the screen so I could see it. “The needle didn’t budge.”
