He narrows his eyes at me before getting his phone out and calling someone. “Hey, Boss. I have a detective Laura Boggs at the gate asking to speak with you. She says she does not have a warrant,” he says. He listens for a second, looking at me. “Okay. I will send her through.”
“All good?” I ask when he hangs up.
“Yes, ma’am. Just follow the road until you get to the house. He asked that you park under the carport to the right of the house. Someone will meet you there to bring you in.”
“Thank you,” I say with a nod. When the gate swings open smoothly, it reveals a paved driveway that winds its way through the pristine grounds, I drive forward.
The scent of freshly cut grass fills the air, mingling with the scent of various flowers that line the winding drive to the mansion. Tall pillars flank the entrance, exuding an air of authority and power. The façade, decorated with intricate carvings and embellishments, reflects Angelo Costa's extravagant taste. It taunts me, promising secrets and sins waiting to be discovered.
As I drive closer, the sunlight dances on the windows, casting vibrant reflections on the ground. They appear ethereal, likewhispers of unseen spirits, watched over by the awe-inspiring mansion. I park my car under a carport to the right of the house, the engine humming its final notes. As I step out, my footsteps make a soft thud on the ground, the pristine pavement offering a stark contrast to the wild allure of the mansion's secrets.
I take a moment to gather myself, preparing for the darkness and danger that lie ahead. The air crackles with anticipation, as if the mansion itself is aware of my quest to uncover Angelo Costa's secrets. I finally get out of the car only taking my phone, badge, and service weapon, ready to confront Angelo Costa and bring his sins to light. Anger ignites within me, fueled by the knowledge of the injustice that permeates throughout this property. Men like him shouldn’t get to live such lavish lifestyles.
“Laura Boggs?” the man asks.
“Yes,” I say with a polite smile.
“I am Mario,” he says, shaking my hand. “I am Angelo’s cousin. He is currently on a conference call with his restaurant managers, but he said he could speak with you in a few moments.”
“If he is busy, we can certainly reschedule for a different time,” I offer. I don’t want them to think I am desperate to talk to him so I can finally start piecing things together.
“No. That's fine,” he says with a warm smile. “Come with me and we can take a seat in the den to wait for him to get done.”
I nod and he leads me inside the house. It is just as elegant inside as it is outside. The main living room has what appears to be granite floors and a thirty plus foot ceiling. I try not to look soshocked as we walk through the house. There is hardly anyone here and the people we do see disappear quickly when they see me.
“Here we are,” he says as he motions for me to sit on the leather couch. I sit on one end, and he takes the other side. “You’re pretty young to be a detective.”
“You say that like you know how old I am,” I say with a sweet smile. I know damn well they already have everything on me already.
“Just an assumption,” he says with a smirk. “How old are you?”
“I am twenty-eight,” I say. “I graduated high school at sixteen and had my masters in criminal justice with a minor in criminal psychology by twenty-two. I then took law enforcement training and was officially a patrol officer at twenty-three.”
“And you just happened to get promoted quicker than anyone else ever does?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“What a shame,” I say with a smile.
“What?” he asks.
“You’re far too handsome to be so sexist,” I say simply, and he chuckles. “I was promoted to detective two years ago when I took the test and scored the highest out of everyone, including the detective that had been on the job for a decade.”
“Hmm. What a shame,” he smirks.
“Oh?”
“Mhmm. I was hoping you’d be easy. You’re far too beautiful to be a pig,” he says, and this time I laugh.
“I have been called many things, but a beautiful pig has not been one of them,” I say, crossing one leg over the other and clasping my hands in my lap.
“Why did you want to become a cop?” he asks.
“My parents were murdered when I was a kid by an assumed mafia Don. They happened to walk up on something they shouldn’t have and ended up getting shot in the head at close range with a forty-five," I say, making a point to keep eye contract. His demeanor never waivers, but I’m not surprised. He wasn’t in this position when his uncle murdered my family. “I lost three people that day.”
“Three?” he asks.
“She was thirty-seven weeks pregnant with my little brother. She was being induced the next day and they wanted to have a date night before they had him. His name was Bradley.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he says politely. “I can see how you were driven to seek justice. Was the killer caught?”