The question startled Grant. Why had he found Sophie a teaching job? Because he cared for her, of course. He wanted the best for her. He wanted to make her happy. But the real reason was niggling at the back of his mind: because he loved her. And because it wouldn’t be a bad idea for her to spend her days far away from him and the threat of his family. But particularly after that kiss they’d just shared, he couldn’t stay away from Sophie completely. That was just not possible.
He was not about to reveal any of those thoughts to his parole officer. “I did it because Sophie didn’t have the courage to do it herself,” he explained. “I know what it’s like to try to make it on the outside after being totally humiliated in prison. It’s not easy. And sometimes you need another person to help you see the strength in yourself.”
Jerry was impressed by the young man sitting across from him. Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
“Enter!” Jerry yelled.
Expecting to tell an eager con to wait outside until his appointment time, Jerry instead found his colleague Sheila standing in the doorway.
“Officer Sarconi,” he greeted her, rising from his chair. Grant craned his neck to catch a glimpse of the woman behind him, and he also stood as a sign of respect.
“What can I do for you?” Jerry inquired.
“Some photos just came in for you from HQ,” Sheila explained in a voice deepened by years of smoking. Although the fortyish woman was somewhat petite, she came across as a tough bitch, and Grant couldn’t imagine many parolees daring to give her a hard time.
“I thought you’d want to see these, pronto,” she prompted, handing him an envelope.
“Thanks,” Jerry replied, opening the clasp. “Madsen, take a seat.”
“Yes, sir.” As Grant watched Jerry extract the glossy photographs, he felt a heated glare from the female parole officer. What was her problem?
Jerry gasped, a photo in one hand and a typed report in the other. Grant was suddenly alarmed to find his parole officer also glaring at him with a menacing fierceness, looking back and forth between him and the photo.
Jerry swiftly rounded the desk and without a word grabbed him by the shirt collar, yanking him to standing.
“What the hell?” Grant blurted.
Jerry roughly spun him around and shoved him toward the wall. Grant’s heart raced with panic and confusion. Under the force of Jerry’s rough hold he felt himself falling and clawed for something to grab on to, unfortunately bringing down the vase of flowers when his hand hit the filing cabinet. Grant heard the crash just as his body slammed into the wall, knocking the air out of his lungs.
“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.