“You’re under arrest!” Jerry shouted, his tone causing Grant to stop squirming immediately while his throat constricted with fear. The parolee felt two pairs of hands on him now as Sheila joined in to restrain him against the concrete.
“Hands on the wall. Spread ‘em,” Jerry ordered, and Grant quickly complied, feeling rough hands thoroughly frisk him. Desperately wanting to ask what the hell was going on, he wisely kept his mouth shut. Once he felt Jerry wrench one arm behind his back and snap a cold metal cuff onto his wrist, he closed his eyes with despair. Swiftly his other arm joined the first, his wrists now tightly manacled together.
There was dead silence in the office. Still facing the wall, Grant dared to glance down at the mess of broken flowers, spilled water, and shards of glass.
“Eyes forward!” Jerry yelled.
“Yes, sir.” His shoulders were already beginning to ache and he’d been cuffed less than one minute. He’d forgotten how painful it was to be handcuffed—physically and emotionally.
“You’re going back to Gurnee, Madsen,” Jerry growled.
He simply had to know what had happened. “Why?”
Exhaling with disgust, Jerry stepped over the clutter on the floor and reached for something on his desk. When he returned, he shoved Grant’s chest into the wall, causing him to twist his head, his cheek flush with the concrete. Sheila studied Grant disdainfully, her arms folded across her chest.
Leaning in behind him, Jerry thrust a glossy photograph in Grant’s face. It was unmistakably an image of him on Angelo’s doorstep. Rifling through the photographs, Jerry showed him the images one by one: Grant greeting Ben, hugging his nephew, then striding out the front door. Who the hell had taken those pictures?
“You tell me you got nothing to report to me, but you were at fucking Angelo Barberi’s house last night?”
Grant blinked rapidly. “So what, sir?”
“So what? You’re caught at a goddamn Mafia don’s house, and you say so what?You’re on fucking parole, you idiot! You don’t associate with criminals, or you go straight back to prison!”
Closing his eyes again, Grant felt his stomach drop. His family was taking him down once again. Sophie’s words of warning reverberated through his head: You won’t be in violation of your parole if you go there, will you? How could he have been so damn stupid? He hadn’t even considered visiting Ben as a potential parole violation.
“What were you doing at Angelo Barberi’s house?” Jerry demanded.
Oh, God, what was he supposed to do? Tell the truth about his Mafia connection? His parole officer already hated him, mistrusted him, viewed him as a no-good criminal.
“Answer me!” Jerry commanded.
But Grant couldn’t get the words out. He couldn’t admit he was a Barberi—a name that sickened him. He stood pinned against the wall in complete stillness, astonished by how quickly he had flushed his future down the toilet once again. And what was he going to tell Sophie?
“Maybe it would help to have him sit down, Jer,” Sheila said.
Taking a step back, Jerry peeled Grant off the wall and guided him back to the chair. He felt Grant’s body shaking beneath his strong hold.
Dismayed by the shitty day this was turning into, Jerry gingerly stepped over the mess on the floor and returned to the chair behind his desk.
Jerry glanced at his colleague. “Sorry your flowers got trashed.”
Sheila shrugged. “Hey, what are you going to do?”
Grant warily looked back and forth between the parole officers. “I’m sorry too, ma’am.”
Sheila raised her eyebrows.
Jerry nodded toward his colleague. “Sheila, I think I can handle this one now. Thanks for your help.”
“You want me to get some officers down here?” she offered.
Jerry studied Grant, who sat ramrod straight with a pained expression on his face. This con made him very curious. Knowing the reason Sophie Taylor went to prison, Jerry was determined to find out exactly how Madsen was connected to the Barberi family, even if he had to question Grant all day long. “Nah, I’ll call them when I’m ready.”
“Gotcha, Jer. I’ll talk to you later.”
Once Sheila had exited, Jerry returned his attention to the handcuffed con trembling before him. “I’ll ask you again, Madsen. What were you doing at Angelo Barberi’s house?”
Grant felt consumed by despair. “Do I have to go back to solitary, sir?”
“What? No, you’ll go back to Gen Pop, unless for some reason you break the rules again at Gurnee.”
He nodded. At least there was that.
Jerry tried another tactic, looking down at the documents Sheila had brought him. “You were hugging, um, it says here, Benjamin Barberi.” He raised his eyes to meet Grant’s. “Do you know him?”
Apparently the feds were also watching his nephew. Things just kept getting better. In that moment, Grant decided simply to give up. Why keep fighting? It never got him anywhere. Listlessly he answered, “Yes, sir.”
“How do you know him?”
Grant averted his eyes. “He’s my nephew.”
There was a knock at the door, undoubtedly Jerry’s next parolee, and he shouted, “Go away! Come back later!” Not surprisingly, the knocking stopped.
A perplexed expression colored Stone’s face as he tried to regain his focus. “Benjamin Barberi is your nephew? How exactly are you related to him? Are—”
Resolving to end this pointless conversation, Grant butted in, “I was born Grant Barberi. My uncle Joe Madsen adopted me when I was twelve.” Watching Jerry struggle to understand this fresh information, he added, “Enzo Barberi, the Mafia don who shot a kid and got sentenced to life at Gurnee—he’s my father.” He exhaled derisively. “My family is a bunch of criminals. And I’m one of them.”
Jerry was dumbfounded by Grant’s explanation, but his mind remained on overdrive, sensing he was missing something. “Enzo Barberi is your dad? That means … Logan Barberi—he’s your … your brother?”
“Yes, sir,” Grant responded, trying to discern why his PO would care about Logan. Enzo was the name everybody knew. Enzo was the most shameful relative.
Jerry’s eyes bugged. “Does Taylor know any of this?”
Grant looked down. “Sophie? No, sir. I didn’t tell her about my family. I didn’t think she would want anything to do with me if I did.”
Jerry was almost speechless, but he soldiered on. “And do you know why Sophie went to prison?”
Now it was Grant’s turn to look confused. “Not the details. Why? Should I know?”
They didn’t know. Neither had any idea Grant’s brother was responsible for putting Sophie in prison. Sophie loved Grant, and she had no fucking clue who he was. Jerry felt sick just thinking about it.
“Sir? Are you okay?”
Jerry looked at Grant. “Why did you pull that robbery, Madsen? Back in 2006?”
Grant looked away, protesting, “It doesn’t matter—”
“Just answer my question,” he insisted.
“My brother and cousin threatened to kill my Uncle Joe unless I stole the money.”
Jerry inhaled sharply. “Jesus! Why didn’t you go to the police?”
“Yeah, right,” Grant scoffed. “That would have done a lot of good. Joe would have been in even more danger if the police had started sniffing around.”
Jerry shook his head. What a mess. “Why the hell would you go to Angelo’s house after what they did to you? Why would you put yourself in that danger?”
“It was Ben’s sixteenth birthday,” Grant retorted defensively. “He’s my nephew, and they’re already getting their claws into him. I’ve got to save him before it’s too late—just like my uncle saved me.”
Grant suddenly became aware of the handcuffs again—all trussed up, ready to return to prison—and lowered his head. “Well, like my uncle tried to save me. Obviously he failed.”
Juxtaposing the shock of discovering Grant’s criminal family with t
he injustice of his dark resignation to take the fall for crimes way beyond his control, Jerry felt a battle wage within him. Did this parolee deserve to return to prison? Or was he a good man trapped in bad circumstances? Sophie seemed to think the latter was true, but she didn’t really know what those bad circumstances entailed.
Jerry grabbed one of the photographs from his desk. “What’s that in your hand there?”
“Uh, a present for Ben?”
“So, you were there for a birthday party, and you only stayed …” He peered at the time stamps on the photographs. “Five minutes?”
“About that, yes, sir.”
“Did you discuss or engage in any illegal activity while you were there, Madsen?”
“Um, I don’t think so, sir. Well, my cousin Carlo Barberi approached me, but we pretty much just yelled at each other.”
Jerry popped out of his chair and quickly circled the desk. “On your feet,” he ordered.
Grant stood up, prepared to be hauled to a transport bus bound for Gurnee. Instead, Jerry unlocked his handcuffs.
Rubbing the raw skin on his wrists, Grant watched the PO clasp the cuffs back on his belt.
“I’m not returning to Gurnee?”
“You’re not in violation of your parole,” Jerry said. “You went to a family birthday party, that’s all. You weren’t attempting to associate with known criminals. It was a big misunderstanding.”
Expelling a huge sigh, Grant gazed gratefully at his parole officer, who did not seem to share his happiness and relief.
“But, Madsen, stay away from your family while you’re still on parole,” Jerry sternly advised. “Hell, stay away from them forever. They’re no good for you.”
“Yes, sir, I can see that.”
Swallowing hard, Jerry commanded, “And you should tell Sophie who you really are.”
Grant absorbed his words. Testily he inquired, “Is that an order, sir? Is that a condition of my parole?”
How was Jerry supposed to answer that? He felt bound to protect Sophie, but he found himself wanting to protect the young man standing next to him as well. Once they learned of their connection, their fledgling love affair would be demolished.
Jerry stared into Grant’s troubled eyes. “No, it’s not an order. But it’s the right thing to do, Madsen.”
He took a deep breath and nodded.
“Now get the hell out of here. You’ve made me late for my next appointment.”
“Yes, sir.”
Grant left the office, his mind swirling. Despite his desperate attempts to escape his family’s influence, they kept infecting his every chance at happiness. But now he had Sophie, and he was determined not to let his family ruin that love too.
27. Imperfect CONnection
Sophie struggled as she tried to fit the key into Grant’s apartment door while juggling two sacks of groceries and a heavy bag of cooking supplies along with her large purse, which threatened to slide off her shoulder. Finally, she opened the door and made her way down the hallway into the kitchen, where she plopped down her purchases with relief.
A giddy excitement coursed through her as she glanced around the empty apartment. She’d just spent a wonderful morning with Anita preparing for the teaching assignment, and she was pleasantly surprised by the salary they offered. Anita’s research grant afforded Sophie better earnings than expected, and she’d now be able to make the monthly payment for her student loans without begging her father.
As she began removing items from the grocery bags, she thought guiltily about her father. She hadn’t spoken to him in more than a year, and she wondered how he was handling the death of his wife. Sure, her parents had argued, but over the years, Sophie had come to realize they needed each other in some incomprehensible way. She knew her father had to be taking his grief hard. Shaking her head, trying to elude the tormenting reminders of her family, she gazed down at the jar of Kalamata olives in her hand.
First, she set out the ingredients for the appetizer: olive oil, garbanzo beans, tahini, onion powder, and a garlic bulb; followed by the necessary elements for the salad: hearts of romaine, tomatoes, feta cheese, cilantro, and parsley. Cucumber and pita bread were the next items she extracted from her grocery bag. Finally, she took out the leg of lamb.
Surveying the fresh food in front of her, she gave a satisfied grin. As she turned to the refrigerator, her smile spread even wider. Although Grant had not one piece of artwork on his apartment walls, he’d carefully displayed the note she’d written weeks ago on his refrigerator door.
Her dreamily scrawled handwriting also brought back steamy memories of their first sexual encounter. Perhaps they could ignite that sensual flame again this evening.
* * *
You should tell Sophie who you really are.
Jerry’s words echoed through Grant’s mind, causing his chest to tighten with dread. How would Sophie react? Would she run from him in fear? Was his family going to ruin yet another important relationship in his life? She was absolutely precious to him—a beacon of light amidst all the darkness—and the thought of losing her made his heart ache.
“Madsen!” Roger hissed, snapping Grant out of his vexed trance.
“Sir?” he nervously questioned, looking around at the bridge and finding his boss glaring at him from the controls.
“Turn off your microphone when you’re speaking to me!” he ordered.
Grant winced as he shut off the headset.
“You’ve been silent for over two minutes, you douche bag,” Roger fumed. “What the hell is your problem?”
Grant’s eyes widened. Wonderful. Now his family was causing him to be derelict in his duty. “No excuse, sir. Permission to continue?”
Roger pursed his lips and nodded dismissively. Grant immediately turned the microphone back on and robotically launched into a description of the futuristic round towers of Marina City. He felt his boss’ angry glare from across the bridge, and he swallowed hard.
Once the cruise had finished, Roger turned to Grant. “You didn’t answer my question,” he said. “What’s wrong with you today? You’re a major space cadet.”
Grant looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“I thought Sophie taking the day off would make your focus better, not worse.”
“I guess I miss having her here,” he admitted.
“Well, you’re the one who got her the new job, right? And you’re already regretting it?”
“I don’t regret it—she was so happy about getting back into psychology, you should have seen her.” A soft smile formed as he remembered her glee. “It’s just … I, well, I had a rough meeting with my parole officer today.”
“Yeah, that guy seems like a hardass. You don’t want to mess around with him.”
“No kidding.” He sighed. “Officer Stone thinks I’m going to hurt Sophie.”
Roger scrunched his eyebrows. “Hurt her? Have you seen the way she looks at you, Madsen? She thinks you’re God’s gift—the fucking cat’s meow.” He scratched his head. “I’m still trying to figure out why she likes you so much.”
Grant chuckled softly, and Roger went on, “You should be more concerned about her hurting you. Remember what I told you about women, Madsen?”
“Ah yes, how could I forget?” Grant said, the lines of worry on his face quickly replaced by laughter. “They’re the devil spawn.”
“Damn straight,” Roger confirmed. “Women: can’t live with ‘em, can’t kill ‘em.” With a huge guffaw, the captain departed the bridge and walked down the stairs, undoubtedly headed off the ship to procure some hated vegetables for an afternoon snack.
* * *
Ben grinned, high-fiving his buddy, after his virtual player scored a touchdown. He and two friends were engaged in a full-scale videogame frenzy at ESPN Zone, not far from his uncle’s home.
“Ben!” Dylan yelled, causing him to glance away from the game. “Come on. Let’s shoot some hoops, man!”
Nick nodded in agreement, and they sl
id out of their chairs facing the giant green screen and headed over to ESPN Hoops Hysteria.
“You are so going down, Dyl.” Ben shook his head.
“Oh, yeah? What makes you think that?” the taller, shaggy-haired boy shot back.
Ben smiled wickedly. “’Cause when the pressure is on, Dyl, you freaking crumble.”
Nick snickered. Last week the three had made their first drug deal, accepting two-hundred ecstasy pills from a well-known local dealer, Aaron Caldwell, then selling them to their classmates. Actually only two of them made the deal, as Dylan panicked and hightailed it out of there when Aaron’s huge German shepherd came to the door first.
Hearing Ben taunt him once again, Dylan realized he would never live down running away. Ben and Nick had each come away with a cool one-hundred-dollar profit, and they were already contemplating their next transaction.
“That was just one time,” Dylan mumbled.
“I think it’s a chronic condition, Dyllie-girl. Your freakout was so epic,” Ben said. “But I gotta take a leak before I school you two in hoops. Be right back.”
Ben turned away from his buddies and entered the men’s room. Once he flushed the urinal, he glanced up at the mirror. His jaw dropped when he saw the reflection of the man behind him.
Staring back at him were two deep-blue eyes.
Whirling around to face his father, Ben’s face was trapped somewhere between delight and anger. Finally, he aimed a lopsided smile toward the tall, black-haired man. “Hi, Dad.”
Logan exhaled with relief and smothered his son in a bear hug. Though allowing his father to scoop him up like that was definitely uncool, Ben could not help but feel pleasure and safety in the sure embrace. It had been too long.
“Happy birthday, son,” Logan said, his voice sounding uncharacteristically shaky.
As they shyly stepped back from one another, both immediately adopted more manly demeanors.
With Good Behavior [Conduct Series #1] Page 27