I wake up on a bench under a harsh fluorescent light, my mouth numb and my fingers sticky, like I touched old honey. The floor is yellowed linoleum tile, and the cold biting at my knees tells me my skirt is still bunched up. I sit up and pull it down. Suddenly, I notice the buzz of a vending machine, the whine of a CCTV, and two men arguing somewhere I can’t see.
Not men. Cops.
I almost want to laugh. It’s almost too classic: the universe pulled me out of one crime family’s arms and dropped me right at the feet of another. But this time, I’m the punchline, and my head is splitting in two.
I try to remember the last thing.
A face at the door. That’s all I have. I’d half-expected it to be Alessio, but—no. It was a face I didn’t know, and the last thing before everything cut is just cold, clinical shock that someone’s hand could cover my entire jaw with room to spare. There was nothing after. Not even fear.
I look around the room. It’s classic interrogation style: one table, four chairs, three of them taken. One is me. The other two are?—
“Miss Stuyvesant. Awake at last.” The man’s skin is a biscuit shade of tan, and his suit is softer and bluer than the wall behind him. His receding hairline is shaved to stubble, more for style than anything else. His plastic name tag reads SAMUEL MATTHEWS, FBI. Underneath, there’s his badge and a small American flag.
His partner is younger and looks eager, even though her lapel matches his and she has the same official accent. She’s so new that her suit still has the shape from the store hanger. Her mouth twitches, like she’s practiced this moment in the mirror too many times.
I make a show of tucking my hair behind my ear, which is mostly to check for sore spots. There are none.
“You could have just asked me to come in, you know,” I say. My voice sounds rough, my throat dry, and my words scratchy.
Matthews offers an apologetic smile. “That’s not standard protocol for persons of interest.”
I stay quiet and look around the room. I can still see Alessio’s penthouse in my mind. Thinking he might come for me is the only thing keeping my panic in check. Still, I’m shaking, my skin tingling with fear, like someone is trying to rattle me apart.
“Coffee?” the young woman—Badge reads: Special Agent Proctor—nods at the Styrofoam cup in front of me as if it might contain poison.
I push it with my knuckle, letting it spin. “I’d rather have a lawyer.”
Matthews’ smile sharpens: gotcha. “Right. About that, your father is on his way down. Very concerned, as you can imagine.”
Of course he is. I can picture my father now, standing in the lobby below, sleeves perfectly rolled, tie askew in thelatest Italian fashion, voice already pitched in that special register reserved for lawyers, boardrooms, and daughters who embarrass him.
I look up, blinking at the agents as if surprised. “Are you guys planning to book me, or just scare the shit out of me?”
Proctor leans forward, elbows on the table. “We’re not here to scare you, Miss Stuyvesant. We’re here to help. We know you’re in a dangerous situation. Maybe more dangerous than you realize.”
She says it like she’s talking to a kid who’s wandered into the street.
“My boyfriend’s a construction magnate,” I say slowly. “He builds skyscrapers and overpays for fancy restaurants. It’s not as dramatic as you think.”
Matthews snorts. “Come on, Lucy. Let’s not play games. Alessio Morrone is not just a construction magnate. He’s a person of interest in eight federal investigations.”
“You arrested me for… what? Being a bad judge of character?” I say.
Matthews' hands go flat on the table. "We detained you because we think you know things you shouldn't." His jaw tightens. "And we're trying to help you before you end up as collateral damage."
I stare at my own hands, and for just a second, the panic wins. My nails are bitten down to nothing. There’s grime under one. I scrape it out with the thumbnail of the other hand.
When I look up, something in the room feels different. Proctor is leaning forward so much I think she might fall into my lap. “Lucy, if you want to get ahead of this, now is the time. You don’t want to end up with a ring on your finger and a body in the trunk.”
You know those dreams where you open your mouth to scream and nothing comes out? That’s what this feels like.
Footsteps in the hall. Then the door opens with a click.
My father fills the doorway, and for a split second, I see the man I once idolized: John Stuyvesant III, breaker of banks, breaker of hearts, breaker of me. His smile is pure old-world charm, the kind that used to belong to oil barons and senators. It’s only when he makes eye contact that I see the real message in it: disappointment, pureed and spoon-fed.
“Lulu,” he says, as if we’re meeting for brunch.
“Dad.” My voice is flat, but I meet his gaze without blinking.