Chapter 24

Juliano's POV

The lights in the room were dim, warm gold bleeding across the sleek marble table. No background music. No curious staff watching. I arrived twenty minutes earlier. Waiting on people isn't my thing, but it was important. The reservation area was booked two days ago; everything was prepared.

I didn’t bring security in. There was no need to.

Leaning back in my chair, my fingers drummed against the sleek marble centre table.I watched as the door shut behind him with an ominous click, not her. Not the silent shadow in a suit. Not a bodyguard with stiff shoulders and guarded eyes. It took me a while to get used to the way she moved in that disguise. No, this was her without a shield. Still precise.

She stepped in the room like she had always belonged there. No disguise. No distortion in her voice. I was happy letting her live freely, not under her shadows. I ordered chicken parmesan. How lousy would the boss be not to offer his underlings something to eat?

Something flickered in her gaze, not fear but anticipation, expectancy, and then it was gone. And now that I was seeing her like this, fully her, I understood just how much she’d sacrificed to wear that mask for so long.

I almost told her to back off; it's dangerous in there. But she sounded eager, happy and fulfilled about the facts she discovered. Saying it would have changed nothing. She seemed like a real detective or someone that has done this before. I knew there was something more to her identity, but there’s no need to push.

We dispersed as I watched her retreating figure walk out of the room. I finally forced myself to look at the papers she gave me. Precise. Clean. I contacted my guards, and we met outside the restaurant.

Everywhere was silent, just the city rolling past the tinted windows. I leaned back in the seat, unbuttoning the top of my shirt. I needed air, space—anything to slow the way my pulse kept echoing in my throat. The last few minutes replayed in my mind.

The thought of marriage hit me like a slap. Because now, I was going back to reality. Reality means every time I see my father, I remember the days I have left to meet the deadline. Reality means sticking to a stranger for the rest of my life.

My phone rang, loud and jarring, shattering the moment like a piece of glass.

With a muttered curse, I reached for the phone before silencing it and then answered. This call better be important.

“We got the plate number of the van, and it was traced. We caught one of the men. He's in the interrogation room. You should be on your way now, sir.” It was the FBI agent.

"To the FBI office.” I ordered, and Tom made a U-turn. The agents welcomed me and led me into the control room.

I watched as I sat behind the monitors alongside the agents dressed in navy blue uniforms with badges resting on their chest.

The interrogation room had white walls, probably sound absorbing. A white light, not too bright. It wasn’t the usual dark rooms with orange light swinging back and forth like a pendulum.

Casting a sideway glance at the two-way mirror. On the other side of that disguised window, someone was no doubt standing, observing him every moment, analysing his breath.

He looked unbothered at first, as if he had been here countless times. Maybe he mastered the theory of investigation since the FBI doesn't torture. He stared at the agent as if he was daring him to pull the words out from his mouth. He had sat in the clutches of the FBI with his hands under the desk. Or he was waiting for the person that sent him to bail him out with the help of corrupt agents.

“You know what he's doing; he's whiling away time, dicking us around." The detective entered the room. Then, he leaned against the wall.

A long silence followed.

A tall female detective entered the interrogation room as she sat down across from him, her hands tapping slightly on the folder, observing him. I maintained my focus.

“My brother was charged guilty of a crime, and he might be going to prison. I just want to ask for your advice.”

A pause, then an abrupt silence as she adjusted her chair and continued.

“He's smart. He's strong. But there's so much he doesn't know. About what the reality is. I know what it's supposed to be. I know theoretically the correction systems. Like you go in correct, then you come out, like, corrected. You know, nobody knows what it's like to step outside of those gates. Corrected, and everything has changed. Then you have to wake up; no structure. No schedule. And you're on your own with all this ‘freedom’. You used to live in the correction centre."

What the hell is she doing? Do soft words move a criminal?

The both detectives gave each other a knowing glance – ostensibly their eyes were calculating.

“I'm doing this all wrong. Detective Frank told me how I was supposed to behave, what my body language should be, strategic physiological pressure points to get the upper hand, and how to trip you up in your lies. But I'm not going to do that. I think this is intimidating. Unpredictable person. Maybe it's the role you got to play to survive in a dangerous place for ten years. I think you have to become what people think you are. If an actual crime has been committed, to me, it's still an open question.

“Nine Nine Four One. For ten years, that's all I've been.You don't look at me like a number. You saw my face. Tell your brother ‘salt’. That's how you survive. Tell him to hoard it in any way he can. You start to lose your taste once you've been in a while. I do this for the leverage and survival,” he said, holding the edge of the table.

“You tried to kill Juliano Bernard.” He rested his back as his cuffs clicked the table.

“You make it sound like I failed.”

“And now that you did, your leverage is gone.”

She pulled a printed image out of the folder. “You met with someone 48 hours before the attack. Who is he”? The image was in black and white, with the other person in a black hoodie, covering his face.

“Hayes doesn't play little games. Juliano is just a pawn that needs to be eliminated." The corner of his lips tilted in a smirk.

The FBI agent faced me and asked, “Do you by any chance know someone that bears the name Hayes, sir?” I forced a smile and nodded. My smile gave away nothing but the curses of my soul.

Hayes is my stepbrother. He and his mother left my father's house long ago after they divorced. We never heard from them – as if they went into extinction. They just disappeared. My mind whirled, and I tried to figure out reasons, but then the companies. He might want to be the next heir.

No one recognised Hayes, but then he was my father's son. My chest twisted, and shock exploded in my body. My breathing was off. Quicker than usual.