Broken Pretty Things by Amber Faye
Chapter 46
Captain Ed Dutch.Two hundred and fifty pounds of smug, useless shit.
The police captain stands, arms over his chest, and ushers me out the door. It took forever to give a statement, and I didn’t want to anyway. I’m wearing no fucking shoes. I walk through the police station in leggings and Gunnar’s too-big sweatshirt, and see that my mom and Pietro are here, standing at reception, looking frantic.
“What the hell were you doing all the way in Westerley, young lady?” my mom calls across the waiting room. I duck my head down and cross the room to get to her, taking the shoes dangling from her fingertips and wordlessly slipping them onto my sore feet.
“You lied to us, lied to your own mother,” Pietro joins her, just as loud but less shrill. “You worried us. You have any idea?” He’s jabbing his finger through the air at me, and weirdly, I feel a rush of fondness towards him for his anger at me right now. It might be the first glimpse into having a father I have ever actually had.
“I know, I know,” I say, holding up my hands. “Let’s talk about this in a little bit. I need to know what’s going on first. Where’s Ransom?”
“Not until you tell us why you were out partying wearing nothing but that,” my mom says, gesturing accusingly at me. “And no goddamn shoes? And look at your hair, holy Christ, Andrea.”
I lift my palm to my hair and feel very guilty for the assumptions in her mind right now. “I’m going to tell you the truth, Mom,” I say finally, and then I pinch the bridge of my nose as the notion sends a jolt of pain through my head. “Can we get out of here?”
She pauses, lips pursed, and then nods.
But then a parade of differently-sized men in suits filter into the police station like ants, followed by Preston Rayne. He rearranges his cuffs, looking around the room with those same piercing, intelligent eyes as his sons.
The look of smoldering fury falls away completely and is replaced by a warm, handsome smile as soon as he sees Dutch. They clap hands and touch each other’s shoulders in a warm, friendly greeting. “So good to see you, Ed,” Preston says, as if they’re brothers reuniting after a war. “Did you take Andrea’s statement?”
“Yes,” Dutch says gruffly, looking around. “These lawyers?” He chuckles. “You need this many?”
“Excuse me,” Pietro pipes up, clearly reading the situation correctly. “You are Gunnar’s father, Preston?”
“Yes,” Preston says, not even meeting Pietro’s eye. He continues talking to Dutch. “Let’s—”
“Your son assaulted my son,” Pietro says, loud and careful. “Are you not even going to look me in the eye like a man?”
Preston blinks owlishly a couple of times, and I nearly laugh. I recognize that expression from his sons, too. Something is happening that a Rayne hadn’t accounted for, and that always sends their heads whirling. “You are Dimitri’s father?” he asks, wheeling around. “Were you aware that your son, nineteen years of age, was selling my sixteen-year-old son hard drugs?” Ransom is seventeen, but I’m not going to be the one to correct him. “Did you know my son is currently in the hospital because of your burnout, white trash offspring? And the worst that happened to him was a little punch on the chin?”
“A little p—” Pietro sputters. “White trash?”
“I suggest you keep your hands by your side if you want this to go smoothly,” Preston says, bringing his hand up to touch his tie. No matter how cool he looks, Pietro is much larger than him. He could get in one very good hit before he was taken down by a cop in here.
“Smoothly?” Pietro repeats. I learned in one of my self-defense classes that repeating words and phrases can mean somebody is about to attack. Some part of their brain shuts down to make room for other parts.
“Are we really going to stand here and fight with each other while Ransom … and Dimitri,” I add for Pietro’s benefit, “are in the hospital?”
There’s a pause, then Pietro ignores me. “What exactly do you need eleven fucking lawyers for, you damn psychopath?”
Preston nods over to Dutch. “Same thing as last time.” He regards Pietro with cold, dark eyes, and then smiles. “Same thing as next time.”
“I suggest we all stop talking now,” one of the lawyers says. “We can take this further, if you would like, but let’s just say … both of your families aren’t looking so great right now. What do you say we sit down and look through our options for putting this whole thing to bed.”
“No way,” Pietro says, but he has lost most of his conviction, eyes darting around the room. “Your son doesn’t get to beat the shit out of mine and get away with it.”
“Last chance,” Preston says.
“We’re not afraid of you, Rayne.” With some effort, Pietro draws himself up to his full height, puffing out his chest.
Preston smiles, but unlike Gunnar’s, it doesn’t crinkle the corners of his eyes. “Then you’re a fool.” And he and his line of lawyers file through into the back room.