| To Play Coy

𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒

JAMES

I turned back to Roman and noticed him staring at me. True as fuck, a grin started up at the corners of his mouth, almost reaching his eyes. Seriously? That was all it took to crack any kind of expression onto this guy's face? Un-fucking-believable.

I leaned over my desk. "You know, we're supposed to be partners, and among other things, that also entails you having my back."

Roman's dark brows slanted down. "If I remember correctly, you said you didn't need a partner. Your exact words, I believe, were, 'I don't need any motherfucking middle-aged bastard being my partner.' Ring a bell?"

"None whatsoever."

Roman snorted and got up from his seat. "Whatever, man. Just make sure you keep your nose out of the feds' business with the Bologna. Believe me, you don't need to get caught in the middle of shit like that."

"Thanks for the warning, partner."

"Anytime." He grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair and sauntered out of the building. I couldn't believe they teamed me up with his weird-ass There was something seriously wrong with that dude. It was like he just didn't run right. Like the silver Porsche 550 Spyder that James Dean crashed to his death in. No matter how much time and money you put into renovating and fixing it, there would always be something about it that wasn't quite right.

"Gunner. There's a woman here to see you."

I glanced at my watch. She was right on time. Of course, she was. Women like her had punctuality drilled into their pretty little heads from the age of three.

"Thanks, Larry. Put her in the interrogation room."

I got up from my chair and noticed Larry hadn't moved.

"I said put her in the interrogation room."

Larry lifted his brow. "Why the interrogation room?"

"She's a criminal." I narrowed my eyes.

"What did she do?"

"Failed to pay her parking tickets?" It was meant to be a statement, not a question.

Larry shook his head. But thank God he didn't press the matter, otherwise, I would have been forced to use the juicy info I had on him and the married Mrs. Galecki from accounting, and I didn't like to waste my little blackmail cards on shit like this.

I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and dialed my mother's number. It had been a week since I last called her, and she was probably going to spend the first three minutes of our conversation yelling at me for making her worry.

Now was probably not the ideal time to make this kind of personal call, but I wanted the woman currently waiting for me in the interrogation room to sweat a little. I wanted her mind to run in three-hundred-and-sixty-degree circles wondering why I asked her here and then placed her in the interrogation room, of all places.

My mom answered on the second ring. "James, is that you?"

"Yes, Mama, it's me."

And then the three-minute scolding started. I sat there listening to her go on and on about how she worried, how it was my duty as her firstborn to check in at least every second day, and that I'd be the cause of her having a heart attack one day.

"Mom, relax. If you don't calm down, you're going to give yourself a heart attack."

I heard her take a breath, and then exhale-just as my sister had taught her. My sister and I both knew how stressed out she could get, especially when it came to the two of us.

"I know I shouldn't worry, James. But you can at least answer when I call or have the decency to text me back."

I closed my eyes, mentally cursing the day my sister decided it would be a good idea to give mom a cell phone for Christmas. Worst fucking idea ever.

"I'm sorry, Mama. It's just really busy at work." Before allowing her to once again tell me what a bad decision it was for me to become a cop, I continued quickly, "How's Dada doing?"

"Other than worrying about you and your sister the whole time, he's doing fine."

"Is Dada's sugar still under control?"

"Yes, thank the Lord. But I constantly have to go through his drawers and check for hidden chocolate bars."

I snickered, thinking that sounded exactly like Dada. He'd always had a sweet tooth, but unfortunately, his diabetes didn't allow him to indulge.

"You should come for lunch on Sunday, James. Your father misses you."

"I'll try."

"I love you, my sweet boy," she said softly, her African accent present with every word. My father was a born and raised American who fell in love with a South African woman while he traveled the world as a pilot. Sounded like a love story out of a damn movie-and it probably was. I never stuck around long enough whenever the topic of their epic love story came up during the conversation. That was the kind of story no kid should hear their parents tell ever.

My sister and I didn't have the same accent as our mother, but when it came to looks, we took after her with our inky black hair, dark brown eyes, and year-round tanned skin.

"I love you too, Mama. I have to go. I'll let you know about Sunday."

I hung up before she got a chance to remind me about not waiting too long before I called her again.

Glancing at my watch, I smiled. It had been fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes of stewing for the woman still waiting for me. My detective ass was willing to bet she was probably sweating like a damn farm animal by now.

I took my time as I sauntered in the direction of the interrogation room. A few more minutes wouldn't hurt.

Larry passed me as I walked down the hall, and I could see the wheels turning in his head, probably wondering what the hell I was up to. Too bad. This was my case-well, technically, not my case-but I fucking made it my case.

I stopped in front of the one-way mirror, and there she was-Vanessa Bologna, daughter of infamous Italian-American mafia boss, Dante Bologna -waiting just for me. It was going to be one hell of a day.