He sits, crossing legs with the ease of someone who’s never been handcuffed. “Agents, can you uncuff my daughter, please? She’s not a flight risk.”
“We’ll need her to sign a waiver first,” Proctor says.
My father turns on her with a polite, lethal smile. “You’ll do it anyway,” he says.
They do.
The cuffs come off. My wrists are pink and strangely cold. My father pats my hand, gentle and distant, like a nurse with a patient.
Matthews recites the standard boilerplate: “Mr. Stuyvesant, your daughter is entitled to legal representation. Would you like us to call your family lawyer?”
I beat him to it: “No. I have my own attorney.”
This, finally, knocks the old man back half an inch in his chair. “Since when?”
“Since I realized your friends aren’t mine,” I say, and I watch the skin around his eyes go papery and thin.
“Fine,” he says lightly. “Who?”
"Enzo Ricci," I say, voice steadier than I feel.
The room goes still. Matthews and Proctor exchange a look I've seen before—the kind that says I've just confirmed everything they suspected about me.
"And his number?" Proctor asks, pen hovering over her notepad.
I recite it from memory. I know exactly what I'm doing—calling a mob lawyer who will come at Alessio's bidding. Who will walk through that door with Morrone's power radiating behind him like heat off asphalt?
"We'll call him," Matthews says, his tone making it clear he thinks I’ve just sealed my fate. "While we wait, why don't you tell us how you ended up in a locked apartment with a man who is, by our last check, a known criminal.”
My father cuts in, eyes fixed on me the whole time. “My daughter is under immense stress,” he says. “Kindly allow her a minute to compose herself before you begin your questioning. And in the meantime—” he waves vaguely—“coffee for the table, please?”
Matthews looks like he’s about to argue, but Proctor gives him a look that clearly means, “Let it play.”
They leave the room, closing the door softly instead of slamming it. Alone with my father, my hands start to shake again.
He doesn’t miss it.
“I thought we’d moved past this,” he murmurs, voice lowered for my ears only. “You know who these men are, Lucinda. Alessio is not your knight in shining armor.”
It’s almost funny, if you can laugh at tragedy. “You taught me to use people until they break, Dad. I guess I’m just slow to learn.”
He studies me and then leans in. “Is it money? Security? Does he hurt you? I can buy you your own place, an apartment in Paris. Tell me what it is that’s keeping you with him, and I’ll match it.”
I stare at him, then at the wall, then at the table. “Days ago, you and Mom forced me to vacate the one I had. I’m notinterested in your charity–it always comes with strings. Besides, you can’t buy what I want,” I say.
His sigh is old, frayed, and truly sad for a second.
“I just want you safe, Lucy. I don’t want you buried on the front page of the Post some morning.”
“At least then you’d finally read about me,” I say, but only to myself.
We don’t speak until the door opens again.
Enzo Ricci is the kind of man who can intimidate anyone in the room. His suit fits like it was made just for him, and his hair is slicked back with something expensive that shines under the lights. When he speaks, his voice is sharp and smooth, impossible to ignore: "You will not address my client without me present. Miss Stuyvesant is here voluntarily–although you denied her due process when you kidnapped and unlawfully detained her. I will be discussing a possible lawsuit with my client. She is not under arrest, nor is she charged with a crime. My client will not be answering questions today. We will be filing a restraining order against the Stuyvesant family, whom I strongly suspect orchestrated this little performance." He glances at my father. "Mr. Morrone does not appreciate attempts to intimidate him.”
My father's face drains of color. Matthews starts to protest, but Enzo is already standing, his hand firm but gentle on my elbow.
"Lucy, we're leaving now," he says. I stand up right away, feeling a small victory grow inside me as my father watches, powerless, while I walk away with the enemy.