But the Innocence Project could take years to deal with his case. They’re absolutely inundated with requests, and besides, whatever this guy was locked up for, he probably did do it, so there would be no grounds for releasing him.
“You give me an outline of the facts of your case and why you think you’ve been wrongfully convicted, and I’ll put it together in a way that’s logical and organized for you to submit. Right now, right here, and you sign this letter before I leave the room.”
I glance at the clock on the wall. We still have twelve minutes. How is it possible only three minutes have passed?
“Then you better hurry and start writing, girl, because this is going to take the whole time. If we’re not done when time’s up, I’m not signing anything until you come back to finish the job. Then I’ll sign your shit so you can get off the case and go get your nails done, or whatever fancy broads like you spend your time doing.” He practically spits out those last words.
I pull out a legal pad and retrieve the pencil from the table. “All right. You’ve got a deal. Let’s go.”
He looks around the room, as if checking to see who might overhear. The guard is standing eight feet away, his thumbs tucked into the belt of his uniform.
Finally, Cardelli starts. “Last time you were here, I probably woulda gotten shanked for even opening my mouth about this shit and naming names, but now that the gossip mill says that rat bastard Casso is going down for murder, shit is changing.”
Everything in me stills when he says the name Casso.
Once again I find myself standing before my father’s desk, but this time, I’m not here because of something I’ve done. I’m here to find out if my help is needed to get this fucking mess under control.
“You think they have the balls to bring charges?”
Dom, still looking every inch the indifferent king in his tall-backed leather chair, raises and lowers his shoulders in a shrug. “Not if they know what’s good for them.”
“Would the charges stick if they brought them?” The question is one I wouldn’t have dared to ask years ago.
“Fuck no. Not only because I didn’t kill the bastard, but because nothing ever sticks when they bring it. I’ve been clean for years. There’s nothing tying me to any of that shit.”
This I believe because, like I told Greer, Dom Casso doesn’t get his hands dirty. I never figured he killed her uncle, but I assume he knows who did.
“You sure they can’t tie you back to it?” Once again, I’m pushing the boundaries of what’s smart. Dom does not like to be questioned by anyone. And doubted? That’s grounds for a verbal flaying.
“You think I’m an idiot, boy?”
His tone and words take me back to being fifteen again for a second, but I’m not that kid. I’m a grown man and here to see if he needs help.
“I think you’re a lot of things, Dom. And if you don’t need my help, I’ll be on my way.” I turn and head for the door where his two bodyguards are standing.
“I’m not done talking to you.”
I pause and turn. “What?” My tone carries my impatience across the room.
Dom doesn’t miss it, and his voice is ripe with displeasure. “The Karas girl. You didn’t follow my orders. What the fuck do you think you’re doing? She’s not for you.”
I’ve heard this all before, and hell, I’ve told myself the same thing.
“Whether she’s for me or not, she’s mine and I won’t give her up.”
He crosses his arms over his chest, and his lip curls. “And what do you think’s gonna happen if she ever finds out the real reason I kicked your ass out of this town and you ended up on a Greyhound to Hollywood?”
My hands are nerveless, paralyzed into useless claws, and I’ve forgotten how to write. The pencil tumbles from my fingers as he speaks. But Cardelli is so caught up in his own story, he doesn’t notice the physical toll his words are taking on me. Ice crystals form in my lungs, and my fight for breath turns desperate. As I suck in small but precious gulps of oxygen, he keeps speaking, oblivious to the panic attack crashing into me across the table.
Get it together, Greer. Before he notices.
Curling my hands into fists, I stab my nails into my palms, and the sharp pain helps me derail the downward spiral. But not completely.
Death.
Murder.
Unclenching my fists, I stretch my hands out, watching them shake for a moment before grabbing the white barrel of the pencil. It slides from my grip twice before I’m able to scrawl letters on the legal pad in front of me as Stephen Cardelli continues with the story of how Cavanaugh Casso framed him for a murder Cav committed.
Cav is a murderer.
The words hammer with unrelenting pressure into my temples as I struggle to keep breathing.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
“Donnigan carried out the hit, and when Casso’s bastard kid Cavanaugh found out, he took out Donnigan and they pinned it on me ’cause I pissed Casso off by slapping around one of the girls at his club. I’ve been rotting in here for three fucking years, keeping my mouth shut so I didn’t get shanked and end up bleeding out in the showers. But now that word on the block is that Casso’s going down, I’m done keeping quiet. I want out, and I know Casso paid off the cops who took me in and planted the piece they used to kill Donnigan in my shit. So tell that to your fuckin’ Innocence Project and get me the hell out of here.”
My vision blurs when I look down at the notepad before me. I can’t read a single thing I’ve written. Tears, I realize. They’re gathering in my eyes but haven’t fallen. I blink them back. I will not cry in front of this man.