Chapter 2 - The Voice on the Line
The static hissed through the cheap speaker of the evidence room before the audio cleared.
*"Take the boy out behind the warehouse on 4th,"* the voice said, low and devoid of humanity. *"Break his ribs. Make it look like the Rossi family is pushing across the river. If he fights back, put a round in his knee. Arthur needs to believe his empire is under attack so he leaves the city to negotiate."*
My breath caught in my throat. Cold sweat prickled across the nape of my neck.
I knew that voice. I had heard it every Sunday at our family dinner table since I was seven years old. It belonged to Marcus Vane—my father’s right-hand lieutenant, the man trusted with our family’s ledger, our private security, and the lives of three Cavanaugh boys.
"Recognize him, son?" Detective Miller leaned against the metal table, watching my pupils dilate.
"I don't know who that is," I lied automatically. The first rule my father hammered into my skull before I could even read: *Never give an outsider Cavanaugh business.*
Eleanor didn’t flinch. She stepped directly between me and the detective, her faded wool coat wrapped tight around her shoulders. Her bare ankles were red from the winter wind, but her back was an unyielding steel bar.
"My boy was ambushed by five grown men outside an auto repair shop," Eleanor said, her voice dropping into a register that made the seasoned detective subtly adjust his posture. "You pulled this phone off one of the attackers. If you had enough to charge Leo with disorderly conduct, you wouldn't be playing secret tapes in an interrogation room at two in the morning. You want him to roll on his father's circle."
"Ms. Hargrove, we're trying to protect him—"
"You're fishing for bait," Eleanor cut him off cleanly. "The charges are dropped, or I call the family attorneys and the press. I'm taking Leo home. Now."
The detective stared at her for five agonizing seconds. He wanted to push, but Eleanor’s eyes were granite. He slapped the table, grumbled an expletive, and gestured toward the door. "Get him out of my precinct."
As we walked into the biting night chill, the adrenaline that had kept me upright drained straight out of my boots. My knees buckled on the concrete steps.
Eleanor caught me under the arm before my knees hit the pavement. She was half my size, yet she took my weight without a grunt.
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"I can walk," I muttered, teeth chattering from shock.
"Shut up, Leo," she said softly, guiding me into the passenger seat of her beaten-up ten-year-old sedan. "Save your breath. You’re bleeding through your shirt."
