The Art of You

“I’ve told you a hundred times and I’ll tell you a hundred more. Hudson would never shoot someone unless it was in self-defense. And even then, he wouldn’t shoot to kill. He’d keep the bastard alive for questioning.” Bastards, in this case.

I covered myself with the blanket as I sat upright in bed, glaring at the federal agent holding a coffee mug that said, ZEN AS F*CK. Did he steal that from a nurse or bring it in from the office just to get under my skin? Probably the latter.

This was the third round of questioning this afternoon. Federal agents had taken turns from my hospital room. I couldn’t believe they were treating us like the bad guys here, recycling the same lines repeatedly but in a different way as part of their obnoxious game of Gotcha.

I hadn’t lied. Not once. I’d told them word for word everything I remembered. Well, I’d excluded why we’d pulled off to the side of the road in the first place, but I didn’t see how that was relevant to their case.

“Back off. I told your people no talking to my daughter without our attorneys present.” Dad to the rescue, armed with his favorite asset, his right-hand man, Constantine.

The agent lowered his mug to his side but didn’t flinch or back away beneath the death stares of my dad and brother. “She didn’t request one. We’re just having a casual conversation.”

Casual my ass. I couldn’t even remember the name the agent had provided, but he was perpetuating movie stereotypes about the FBI, which pissed me off. “I want to see Hudson.” I sounded like a kid begging for her mother, throwing a tantrum. But who could blame me? This whole thing was a confusing and blurry nightmare.

My father’s jaw worked overtime as his loafers carried him farther into my room while he muttered a few choice words in Italian I hoped the agent didn’t understand.

“You can’t buy your way out of this mess like you did for your sons years ago.” The agent lifted his chin, eyes sweeping to Constantine as he returned to his casual sipping, testing me so hard. “I’m friends with the AG. I know about that backdoor deal you made for your sons.”

I’d only recently learned about that. My father had ensured my brothers never saw the inside of a prison for murdering who they’d believed had killed Bianca.

“We saved the ambassador’s daughter last night and stopped her abductors from getting away. Why don’t you focus on that? Maybe thank us instead.” Constantine began methodically rolling one sleeve to the elbow. “You need to leave my sister alone.” I heard the “or else” I knew he wanted to say but couldn’t.

I was pretty sure threatening bodily harm to an FBI agent was an arrestable offense. Leave it to my brother to always be the responsible one and think about consequences, even if it pained him to do so sometimes, like now. He’d be no help to any of us if he tossed an agent out on his ass, even if that’d be a lovely sight to see.

“My sister already told the Feds everything she knows while our attorneys were present.” Constantine worked on the next sleeve, rolling it up to expose his corded forearm. This was an intimidation tactic by him. He couldn’t hit him, but he could quietly act like he just might.

“Special Agent Cattaneo should lose her badge for helping your family.” Sip, fucking, sip. I was about to get up and snatch his cup and shove a little ZEN up his ass. “And as for the governor . . .” He let his opinion of him hang, but it was clear he hadn’t voted for Hudson’s dad in the last election.

“Get out,” was all my brother said, managing to remain calm.

“You don’t think it’s possible those two men lost control of their truck during the storm⁠—”

“And rammed into them multiple times?” Constantine reminded him, cutting off the agent. “Don’t forget the fact their truck was going the opposite direction they should’ve been headed if they were truly going to the city as they told their boss.”

The Fed ignored my brother’s point and rolled right past it and back to the crime scene. “Even if they caused the accident on purpose, it’s possible Hudson still reacted quickly and put two in both their chests to protect himself and Miss Costa here.”

Another Fed had offered that same theory an hour ago, and I’d already objected to it. “And then, what?” I shot out in irritation before my brother could answer. “Hudson crawled out the broken window and miraculously managed not to cut up his hands on the glass so he could hide his gun? Somehow stayed dry walking through a downpour to stash it in the woods? Oh yeah, then used the rain to wash his hands of the residue before crawling back over the glass to get into the Porsche so he could defy gravity and strap himself in upside down? Let’s not forget, pass out in the nick of time before the police arrived.”

So help me, if this prick wanted to start with me like this after the day I’d already had dealing with these ridiculous questions, I’d stamp LFG on my forehead. Because yeah. Let’s. Fucking. Go.

“So, Hudson was, in fact, armed last night? Was it his gun that killed those two men? The lockbox found in the trunk was empty, so you’re saying he had the nine mil on his person during the accident?” He pulled out the “gotcha” card on me, and I was too embarrassed to look at my brother or father after walking right into the trap he’d set for me. “Tell me, Miss Costa, at any point did you see a nine millimeter in Hudson Ashford’s hand? Lying to a federal agent is a⁠—”

“Yes, but that’s because⁠—”

“So, you’re confirming he had one of his four registered Glocks with him last night?” His question pounded right through me, punching me in my good eye. At my hesitant nod, he went on, “If there really was a third person there, why wouldn’t they leave the literal smoking gun in Hudson’s hand? Why not frame him?” If I had to hear this shit one more time, so help me.

“Because it wasn’t Hudson’s Glock they used to kill those men. They’d know ballistics wouldn’t be a match, so the other man there had to get rid of it.” I’d dug this ditch, and I had to get free myself. “Given our team helped take down kidnappers last night, do you blame him for wanting to be armed?”

“That hole you’re digging is about six feet deep. Looks like I don’t even need to give you a shovel.” Dark eyes studied me as he drank his coffee. I hoped it was bitter and tasted like ashes. “Hudson was first in his class in Sniper School, and given his service record, I’d go so far as to say he could hit a target drunk, or even unconscious.” The smug bastard even mimed air quotes around his last word.

“You can shove those assumptions”—I included my own air quotes—“right up your⁠—”

“Izzy,” my father cut me off, which was probably for the best.

“Seeing that you’re familiar with Hudson’s record, and you’re obviously aware he’s a former FBI agent, do you really think he’d shoot to kill if their weapons weren’t drawn?” Constantine countered, drawing his arms over his chest and standing his ground. “As it is, my sister offered you more facts than necessary to prove your story doesn’t add up, and you know it.”

The agent’s jaw tightened. “Maybe there was a third person there, someone who took the gun from Hudson, which is why Hudson never had to crawl across broken glass or get wet.” He mimicked Constantine’s firm stance. “Tell me, Mr. Costa, where were you at the time of the accident? Did you cover for Hudson? Or did you shoot those two men?”

Now this was a new accusation, and while it had me fired up and ready to fight again, Constantine barely flinched or reacted. Instead, he pivoted the conversation in a whole new direction. “You have something against Hudson, don’t you? Or his dad, maybe? A vendetta. This is personal.”

That or you’re in on what happened last night, too. I wasn’t sure who to trust at this point.

“From where I stand, your family, as well as Hudson, are in shit’s creek without a paddle.” He set aside his mug on my rolling cart.

“It’s up. Up shit’s creek.” I’d been a hot mess of tears and distress earlier at the sight of Hudson in that bed, not to mention feeling guilty for distracting him with my issues before the crash, but now? Now I was stuck in LFG mode, ready to go to bat for everyone I loved.

The agent didn’t press Constantine on his alibi, which told me he already knew exactly where my brother had been, and it was nowhere near that road. He’d simply been trying to goad us into more oops-admissions like I’d done with Hudson’s gun.

The agent went over to the blinds and parted them, peering out at the street and probably at the reporters.

I’d already peeked myself a few too many times, curious if Kit was with the herd. Damn that woman for being the reason I’d been so mentally off last night. But I had to reserve thinking about that problem for another day.

“Someone will pay for what happened last night.” The agent’s casualness was about to send me over the edge.

“So as long as someone goes down, it doesn’t matter if it’s the right someone, I take it?” I arched my brow, waiting for him to face me and lie.

“Or in your eyes, is Hudson the perfect person to take the rap for this precisely because of who his father is? Someone doesn’t want Ashford getting reelected, is that it?” Constantine circled my bed, tightening the space between him and the agent while also creating a buffer between me and the man I wanted to push out the window he was so intently focusing on. “Rumor has it that the attorney general of New York is a friend of yours, and he’s planning to run for governor next year. I’m guessing he may be motivated to resolve this case in a certain way.”

Well, damn. Constantine had done his homework in the few hours he’d been away from the hospital.

The agent dropped the blinds and turned toward the room. “Even if you may have helped Ambassador Aldana’s daughter, you did so without a badge. You think I don’t know the other bodies your men racked up during that unauthorized operation to save Lola Aldana?”

Oh, I could smell this agent’s bullshit from two counties over. He was gunning for Hudson, and it had everything to do with the governor.

He took a step toward Constantine, the scowl on his face and ice in his voice anything but composed and professional. “You think you’re above the law, but you’re not, and one way or another I’m taking Hudson down. If not for this, then for something.”

And there it is. He knew Hudson wasn’t guilty. Hell, a ten-year-old could’ve figured it out based on all the reasonable doubt presented. He was only trying to throw us off. My brother was right. He’d string Hudson up on jaywalking charges if he could get them to stick.

Instead of calling him out again on his BS, Constantine produced his phone from his pocket. An uneasy look crossed his face from whatever he read and his voice dropped to a menacing growl. “You need to go. You want to talk to one of us, do it with our lawyers present.” With his free hand, he jerked his thumb toward the door.

The agent reached into his pocket and set his business card on the rolling cart. He went to take his mug, then hesitated and retracted his hand. “On second thought, you keep this. Looks like you need a little more zen than I do.”

Son of a bitch. It took all my energy to keep my mouth shut and watch that man walk away without hurling his stupid mug at his arrogant head.

The second my father shut the door, Constantine shared, “The surveillance footage both inside and outside the party was corrupted. Alessandro couldn’t salvage it.”

“Wait, what are you saying?” I mean, I know what you’re saying, but . . .

“Someone beat us to the punch, and they’re covering their tracks.” A worried look passed between my brother and father before Constantine added, “Someone doesn’t want the Feds to know a third person was rolling with those pieces of shit last night.”