ANTONIO'S POV
Grant stood behind me, arms crossed, looking like he wanted to punch someone.
He'd shown up ten minutes after they dragged me in, carrying a black duffel with clothes, my wallet, my keys, and that same disappointed-dad expression he always wore when I fucked up publicly.
"Put that on," he said, tossing a plain white T-shirt at my chest. I caught it without looking. Didn't move to wear it yet. Let them stare at the half-naked state attorney they'd just cuffed like some street thug. Let the camera eat it up. Let every rookie in this precinct whisper about it for weeks.
These useless motherfuckers thought they could keep me here because I was letting them. I was letting them. For now.
One of the officers—a kid who looked barely old enough to shave—kept asking the same stupid questions.
"So what do you do for a living, Mr. Leonard?" I leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and slow.
"I kill for a living." The room froze. The recording light on the camera blinked red.
The second officer's hand twitched toward his holster. The kid's Adam's apple bobbed hard. Silence stretched until it hurt.
Then Grant barked out a laugh—loud, sharp, filling every corner of the tiny room like gunfire.
All heads snapped toward him. He shook his head, still chuckling, and dropped my gold-embossed ID card on the mahogany table with a deliberate slap.
Worst mistake they ever made was letting him do that.
"You're telling me," Grant said, voice dripping with mockery, "you don't know the most powerful attorney in this city? You rib-crackers really thought you could cuff Antonio fucking Leonard and nobody would notice?"
The officers' faces went from shock to pale panic in under three seconds.
I watched them recognize me. Really recognize me. The courtroom stories. The verdicts that made judges sweat.
The cases that disappeared when I wanted them gone. The rumors about the other side of my life—the one that left bodies cold and enemies quiet.
Grant kept going, enjoying himself way too much.
"Let me educate you boys. This man here? He can have your badges, your pensions, your houses, and your firstborn's college fund gone with one phone call. He's been patient. He's been sitting here answering your kindergarten-level questions. But patience has limits. And you just found his."
The kid officer looked like he might throw up. The older one swallowed. "We… we didn't know—"
"Of course you didn't," I cut in, voice calm now. Dangerous calm. "New recruits, right? Fresh out of the academy. Nobody told you who runs this city."
They both stared at the floor. I leaned back, finally pulling the T-shirt over my head. It smelled like Grant's cologne,woodsy, expensive, familiar. Grounded me for a second. Then the door burst open.
Don Martino filled the frame like a storm cloud in a tailored black suit. Jessica trailed behind him, eyes red, mascara smudged, clutching her purse like a shield.
The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees. Don Martino didn't shout. He never had to.
"Yes?" His voice was velvet over steel. "What's going on here? Why is my son-in-law sitting in cuffs?"
The officers echoed "son-in-law?" in perfect terrified unison.
Jessica rushed forward, but her father lifted one gloved hand. She stopped instantly. Don Martino stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. Each footfall echoed.
"What did he do to break the law?" he asked again, softer this time. Deadlier.
The older officer stammered. "We… reckless driving… possible DUI… but there's also—"
"Release him," Don Martino said.
Not a request. A command carved in stone. "Before I snap my fingers and you're both out on the streets job-hunting until the day you die."
They didn't argue. Keys rattled. Cuffs clicked open. I stood up slowly. Rolled my shoulders. Picked up the arrest report sitting on the table.
I walked past each officer and slapped the papers lightly against their cheeks one, two, three times each. Not hard. Just enough to sting their pride.
"Next time," I said quietly, "check the name before you put cuffs on." Grant was already laughing again, doubled over, slapping his thigh. I shook my head at him.
"You're an idiot."
"Best kind," he wheezed. We walked out.
Shirt and briefs. Bare feet on cold tile. Past staring desk sergeants. Past whispering uniforms. Past the glass doors that slid open into blinding morning sun.
Outside, Don Martino's black Escalade idled like a sleeping panther. Two more SUVs flanked it—tinted windows, engines running, men in dark suits standing at attention.
Jessica threw herself at her father, kissing his cheeks over and over, babbling thanks. I watched her and felt something sour twist in my gut.
Nostalgia hit like a fist. I saw my own father—tall, laughing, chasing me and the neighborhood kids through the old garden during hide-and-seek.
His deep voice calling my name. "Tonio! You can't hide forever, boy!" The way he'd scoop me up, spin me until the world blurred, then whisper, "One day you'll be so great even I'll be scared to call you Antonio. You'll be Sir."
I closed my eyes for half a second. Tried to hold the sound of his laugh. Tried to feel his hand ruffling my hair. But all I got was silence.
Five years of silence. A sob clawed up my throat. I swallowed it down hard.
"Tonio?" Grant's deep Irish brogue pulled me back. I blinked. Looked around. Don Martino and Jessica were already in the back of the Escalade. The door closed with a heavy thud. Engines revved.
The convoy pulled away, slow, arrogant, untouchable.
My phone buzzed violently in my hand.
Mom.
The single word on the screen made my chest tighten. I answered before I could stop myself.
"Antonio, mi vida," her voice cracked on the first syllable. "Tomorrow is your father's fifth-year memorial. You never come. Not once. Please, baby. Come home. Give your father the honor he—"
I ended the call. Put the phone on silent. Stared at the black screen.
Guilt burned hotter than the graze on my ear from last night's hangover. Hotter than the bullet that had just— Wait.
A gunshot cracked behind me. Hot air kissed my earlobe. Something wet trickled down the side of my neck. I didn't think. I dove. Hit the pavement. Rolled. Came up behind Grant's car.
Another shot, glass exploded above my head. Grant yelled something I didn't catch.
The cuffs were gone but the skin on my wrists still screamed red. I rubbed them hard while Grant shoved black sweatpants at me.
I stepped into them right there on the sidewalk outside the station. Shirt hanging open, barefoot, dried blood cracking on my ear and neck. I didn't give a fuck who stared. Let the morning commuters see.
Let the cops inside the glass doors watch. Let the whole damn city know Antonio Leonard walked out in one piece.
Grant opened the passenger door of his Range Rover. I shoved past him, took the driver's seat instead. He climbed in without a word. The engine roared. I floored it. Tires bit pavement. We shot out of the lot like the car was bleeding too.
My ear throbbed with every heartbeat. Fresh blood trickled again, warm down my neck, soaking the collar of the clean shirt Grant had forced on me earlier. I wiped it with my sleeve. Smear of red on white.
It didn't stop. Pain was fuel right now. Grant already had his phone out, fingers flying.
"Street cams, precinct lot, rooftop across the way. I'm pulling everything. Facial rec running in five." I grunted.
"Make it three."
He didn't answer. Just kept typing. I merged onto the highway ramp, cut across three lanes without signaling. Horns blared behind me. I didn't look back. No tail visible yet. But I felt eyes.
Someone had been watching since the cuffs clicked on. Someone who knew exactly when I'd step outside.
Bullet had come from the parking structure opposite the station. One shot. Clean miss by half an inch. If I'd turned my head a fraction slower, gray matter would be drying on concrete right now.
Five years. Five fucking years since a single bullet took my father in his study. Same style.
Professional.
No mess,no trace.
Case died the same day he did. And now they tried the same move on me. The same day the bullshit reckless-driving charge landed me in cuffs. Same morning Don Martino storms in like a king and gets me released. Too many same mornings.
I gripped the wheel until the leather creaked. Knuckles white. Veins popping. Grant glanced over. "You're bleeding again."
"Still attached to my head. That's a win."
He snorted. "You need stitches."
"I need answers." Silence stretched between us.
Only the engine and the hum of tires. My phone buzzed in the cup holder. Mom again. I stared at the screen until it stopped ringing.
Then it rang again. Same name.
Same pain. I snatched it. Hit speaker. "Mom—"
"Antonio, please." Her voice cracked right away. "Tomorrow is five years. Five years, mi vida. You haven't come once. Not once. The house feels empty without you there. Your father's picture just stares at me. Come home. Just this time. Honor him."
My throat closed. I could see her in my head—sitting at the dining table, hands folded, eyes red, waiting for a son who never shows. I swallowed hard.
"I'm coming tomorrow. Early. I swear." A small sob escaped her.
"You mean it? You really mean it?"
" said it." She cried quietly for a few seconds. "I'll make your favorite. The arroz con pollo. And the flan. I'll leave the light on in your old room."
I couldn't speak. Just nodded even though she couldn't see. "I love you, Antonio."
I ended the call before my voice broke. Phone dropped back into the holder. I stared straight ahead. City lights streaking past like tears I refused to shed.
Grant didn't say anything for a long minute. Then quietly: "She's gonna cry when she sees that ear."
"She's cried enough." He nodded once. We took the exit toward my building. Side streets. No main roads. No predictable path.
I replayed the morning in my head.
Waking up buried under four whores. Jessica bursting in. Ripping her dress. Fucking her hard. Too hard. Her tear on the pillow. Her saying it was her first time.
Me pretending it mattered. Then cuffs. Then Don Martino. Then the shot.
Every piece fit too neatly. Like someone was writing the script and I was the idiot following the lines. I pulled into the underground garage. Private level. My spot.
The doorman saw the blood, looked away fast, and opened the elevator without a word.
Up. Penthouse. The door shut.
Locked. Deadbolt.
I stripped the bloody shirt, threw it in the trash. I walked to the bathroom barefoot. Cold water on. I splashed my face. Neck. Ear. Stung like hell.
Good.
The mirror showed me a stranger. Eyes hollow. Jaw locked. Blood streaked like war paint.
This was the man my father said would be great. This was the man who let him die unsolved. I punched the mirror. Glass cracked in a spider web.
Knuckles split open again. Blood dripped into the sink. Mixing with the water. Swirling red down the drain.
Grant leaned in the doorway. "Feel better?"
"No."
"Didn't think so." I turned the shower on hot. Stepped under the spray. I stood there until my skin burned red. Let the water hit my face. Let it drown the sound of my mother crying. Let it drown Jessica's gasp when I thrust in. Let it drown the crack of that gunshot.
Nothing drowned. I shut the water off. Towel around my waist. Walked out dripping. Bedroom. Black shirt. Black pants. Black boots. Ankle holster. Rib holster. Two spare mags. Knife in the boot.
Back to the living room. Grant had the laptop open. Grainy footage playing on loop. Man on the rooftop. Black hoodie. Low cap. Gloves.
Rifle barrel glints once. Lowers it after the shot. Then limps away. His right leg dragged half a step.
I froze. That limp. I knew that limp. Viktor. One of my father's old soldiers. Disappeared the week after the murder.
Everyone said he ran. Or got buried somewhere quiet. But that walk. That exact fucking walk. I sat down hard on the couch. Heart slamming against my ribs. If Viktor was alive… If he pulled that trigger today… Then someone kept him hidden for five years. Someone paid him. Someone pointed him at me.
Someone with enough power to stage a bullshit arrest this morning. Someone who could walk into a precinct and make cuffs disappear. Don Martino's face flashed in my mind. His calm voice.
His gloved hand stopping Jessica. His "release him" command. I looked at Grant. Voice low. Rough.
"Tomorrow at the memorial isn't about showing up." Grant closed the laptop slowly.
"What is it about?"
"Hunting." His mouth curved. Slow. Sharp.
"Finally." I stood up,walked to the floor-to-ceiling window. City lights glittered below like broken glass. Pieces moving.
My father's killer was somewhere in the dark. Tomorrow I won't stand at a grave and bow my head.
Tomorrow I'd bring every weapon I owned.
Every man I trusted. Every piece of rage I'd carried for five years. I touched the graze on my ear. Still oozing a little.
Good. Let it bleed. Let it remind me every second.
No more waiting. No more games, no more pretending I'm just the playboy attorney fucking his way through grief.
Tomorrow I will come for blood. And when I find the person who killed my father, when I look them in the eye— They'll know exactly who ended them. They'll know Antonio Leonard finally showed up. And they'll beg before the bullet.