章 3: | To Play Coy

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

I turned back to Roman and noticed him staring at me. True as fuck, a grin started up at the corners of his mouth, almost reaching his eyes. Seriously? That was all it took to crack any kind of expression onto this guy's face? Un-fucking-believable.

I leaned over my desk. "You know, we're supposed to be partners, and among other things, that also entails you having my back."

Roman's dark brows slanted down. "If I remember correctly, you said you didn't need a partner. Your exact words, I believe, were, 'I don't need any motherfucking middle-aged bastard being my partner.' Ring a bell?"

"None whatsoever."

Roman snorted and got up from his seat. "Whatever, man. Just make sure you keep your nose out of the feds' business with the Bologna. Believe me, you don't need to get caught in the middle of shit like that."

"Thanks for the warning, partner."

"Anytime." He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and sauntered out of the building. I couldn't believe they teamed me up with his weird-ass There was something seriously wrong with that dude. It was like he just didn't run right. Like the silver Porsche 550 Spyder that James Dean crashed to his death in. No matter how much time and money you put into renovating and fixing it, there would always be something about it that wasn't quite right.

"Gunner. There's a woman here to see you."

I glanced at my watch. She was right on time. Of course, she was. Women like her had punctuality drilled into their pretty little heads from the age of three.

"Thanks, Larry. Put her in the interrogation room."

I got up from my chair and noticed Larry hadn't moved.

"I said put her in the interrogation room."

Larry lifted his brow. "Why the interrogation room?"

"She's a criminal." I narrowed my eyes.

"What did she do?"

"Failed to pay her parking tickets?" It was meant to be a statement, not a question.

Larry shook his head. But thank God he didn't press the matter, otherwise, I would have been forced to use the juicy info I had on him and the married Mrs Galecki from accounting, and I didn't like to waste my little blackmail cards on shit like this.

I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and dialled my mother's number. It had been a week since I last called her, and she was probably going to spend the first three minutes of our conversation yelling at me for making her worry.

Now was probably not the ideal time to make this kind of personal call, but I wanted the woman currently waiting for me in the interrogation room to sweat a little. I wanted her mind to run in three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circles wondering why I asked her here and then placed her in the interrogation room, of all places.

My mom answered on the second ring. "James, is that you?"

"Yes, Mama, it's me."

And then the three-minute scolding started. I sat there listening to her go on and on about how she worried, how it was my duty as her firstborn to check in at least every second day, and that I'd be the cause of her having a heart attack one day.

"Mom, relax. If you don't calm down, you're going to give yourself a heart attack."

I heard her take a breath, and then exhale-just as my sister had taught her. My sister and I both knew how stressed out she could get, especially when it came to the two of us.

"I know I shouldn't worry, James. But you can at least answer when I call or have the decency to text me back."

I closed my eyes, mentally cursing the day my sister decided it would be a good idea to give mom a cell phone for Christmas. Worst fucking idea ever.

"I'm sorry, Mama. It's just really busy at work." Before allowing her to once again tell me what a bad decision it was for me to become a cop, I continued quickly, "How's Dada doing?"

"Other than worrying about you and your sister the whole time, he's doing fine."

"Is Dada's sugar still under control?"

"Yes, thank the Lord. But I constantly have to go through his drawers and check for hidden chocolate bars."

I snickered, thinking that sounded exactly like Dada. He'd always had a sweet tooth, but unfortunately, his diabetes didn't allow him to indulge.

"You should come for lunch on Sunday, James. Your father misses you."

"I'll try."

"I love you, my sweet boy," she said softly, her African accent present with every word. My father was a born and raised American who fell in love with a South African woman while he travelled the world as a pilot. Sounded like a love story out of a damn movie-and it probably was. I never stuck around long enough whenever the topic of their epic love story came up during the conversation. That was the kind of story no kid should hear their parents tell ever.

My sister and I didn't have the same accent as our mother, but when it came to looks, we took after her with our inky black hair, dark brown eyes, and year-round tanned skin.

"I love you too, Mama. I have to go. I'll let you know about Sunday."

I hung up before she got a chance to remind me about not waiting too long before I called her again.

Glancing at my watch, I smiled. It had been fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of stewing for the woman still waiting for me. My detective ass was willing to bet she was probably sweating like a damn farm animal by now.

I took my time as I sauntered in the direction of the interrogation room. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt.

Larry passed me as I walked down the hall, and I could see the wheels turning in his head, probably wondering what the hell I was up to. Too bad. This was my case-well, technically, not my case-but I fucking made it my case.

I stopped in front of the one-way mirror, and there she was-Vanessa Bologna, daughter of infamous Italian-American mafia boss, Dante Bologna -waiting just for me. It was going to be one hell of a day.

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章 4: | To Meet Your Match

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

Now, I had to admit, I was slightly disappointed at how cool and calm she looked. She hadn't even broken a sweat during the fifteen minutes she was cramped inside that stinking room without a clue as to what she was doing there.

Slanting my head, I continued to look at her. This was the first time I'd seen her in person. All the other two thousand, one hundred and thirteen times I'd seen that face was when I stared at a picture of her in a non-weird, non-perverted kind of way.

I'd been keeping a very close eye on the Bologna, studying them-her parents, her two brothers, and her. For the last sixteen months, I'd been glued to every move that my family made. And by now I sure as hell knew a lot about Vanessa Bologna.

For instance, I knew she was twenty-four years old, her birthday was February fourteen, fucking Valentine's Day, and she was in her third year at Columbia University Law School. Currently, she was home for summer vacation, one of the three times a year she visited-the others being Thanksgiving and Christmas. I also knew her family owned the Italian restaurant where I just had my lunch, the restaurant where I'd been having my lunch quite regularly lately.

The Bologna pretended the restaurant was a gold mine and judging by their pizza, it probably was-and that Dante's impeccable knowledge of everything Wall Street was where they got all their wealth. But everyone knew Dante Bologna was so much more than that.

Children had been disappearing like crayons at a daycare centre, bodies piling up, and drugs spreading like a fucking disease on the streets. I was convinced this woman's dad was behind it all.

She flipped her long, dark hair over her shoulder, holding her phone in the other hand. She was texting or probably updating her Facebook status for the hundredth time today.

I decided to finally grace her with my presence and walked into the room.

"Miss Bologna, thank you for coming. I'm Detective Gunner."

"Detective Gunner." She looked up at me, and the moment her eyes met mine, I was captivated. I'd seen them so many times in pictures, but it was obvious the camera didn't do them justice. Her big, round eyes were like melted chocolate swirls-dark, rich, and alluring, making me wish I could jump in and get lost inside them.

"Do you mind telling me what all this is about, Detective?"

My gaze fell to her full, luscious, tempting red lips, and all I saw at that moment, all I thought about were eyes and lips, and about a dozen acts of sin.

Fuck!

This was going to be one hell of an interrogation.

*****

𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐀

I stared at the detective in front of me. I didn't trust him. I also knew the whole story of a receipt with my credit card number found on an armed robber last night was bullshit. My credit card wasn't stolen. Plus, I checked my bank account, and no funds were missing.

What I did know was this probably had everything to do with my last name being Bologna. I might not be anything more than a rich princess, daughter of a powerful and wealthy family, to most of the people here in Boston, but I wasn't stupid.

And the way this detective was staring at me with his dark brown eyes all smouldering and confident-maybe a little too confident-I was about ninety-nine per cent sure he was hoping to get some information out of me.

He placed his arms on the table. "Miss Bologna, we found a credit card receipt-"

"No, you didn't." I didn't have time for bullshit.

He narrowed his dark eyes, and a smirk started at the corners of his mouth, dimples appearing just above it. If I wasn't so annoyed that he lied to get me here, I would have taken at least ten minutes to admire him.

With a sturdy, square jawline that could-easily-chisel granite, a five o'clock shadow, and a pair of full, appealing lips, Detective Gunner was easy on the eyes. And judging by the way he filled out his shirt and jeans, I was willing to bet he had the physique and muscle to back up all that confidence oozing out of him.

I hadn't even been in the same room as this man for two minutes and I already knew his ego was bigger than fucking China.

"Miss Bologna -"

"That's it, isn't it? It's my last name that has me here at two o'clock on a Friday afternoon, instead of drinking cocktails by the pool with my friends." I might as well act like the rich princess everyone thinks I am.

That smirk was still plastered on his face as he leisurely leaned back in his chair. "I see you're a no-bullshit kind of woman."

"I'm Italian, what do you expect?" I crossed my legs under the table and noticed him glance down at my lap while biting his lower lip as he slowly moved his gaze up my body.

"Tell me about yourself, Miss-"

"Something tells me you already know everything there is to know." I cocked my head, letting my dark curls slip over my shoulder.

He frowned, then reached into his pants pocket and pulled out his cell phone.

I watched as he slid his finger across the screen.

"According to Facebook-"

"You have Facebook?"

He glanced up at me. "Stop interrupting me."

"Stop antagonizing me." I lifted a brow.

He snorted and turned his attention back to his phone. "So, according to Facebook," he glanced at me for a split second like he was expecting me to interrupt again, but I didn't, "Vanessa Bologna checked in at the Skin Spa in New York," he turned the screen toward me, "and she checked in five minutes ago to get some 'well-deserved pampering with my girlfriends,'" he mocked, reading my status update.

Well, shit. I did not see that one coming. Well, this would teach me not to use the fifteen minutes stuck in an interrogation room to update my fake Facebook page. I had a PR company doing it for me up until a few months ago.

They kept messing up by posting the load of crap that clashed with some of my public appearances. Like "Vanessa is out fishing with her friends today," when in fact, I was at the new local library opening ceremony getting my picture taken with my dad and the fucking mayor-shit like that. And since when did I start going fishing? I have over a million and one persons that would love to know. And apparently, Detective Gunner was one of them.

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