Page 21 of Vega

I slid my gun into the holster beneath my shirt. Then I leaned over, kissed her forehead, and grabbed my keys. “Lock the door behind me.”

“I will.”

By the time I stepped into the hallway, the easy feeling from the bedroom was gone. Roman Granger believed he knew who had killed his son. And in thirty minutes, he planned to tell me what he wanted done about it.

Roman chose a private dining room in a restaurant that wasn’t open to the public. The owner met me at the side entrance, took me through a dark kitchen, and led me into a room with no windows. Roman sat alone at a long table with an untouched glass of brown liquor in front of him. He was a tall, broad-shouldered Black man in his late fifties with a clean-shaven head, deep-set eyes behind dark-framed glasses, and a full salt-and-pepper beard trimmed with precision. A dark blazer rested over a fitted black shirt, making him look more like a powerful businessman than the man the streets whispered about.

Two armed men waited outside the door, but neither entered with me.

I claimed the chair across from him.

“Thank you for meeting with me.”

I nodded once. “No problem.”

“I’m sure you’ve heard of my son’s death.” His expression didn’t change when he said it. The grief I had seen him perform on television wasn’t there. This version of Roman was calmer and colder. He looked like a man discussing a business issue instead of the murder of his child.

“I heard.”

“The streets believe he was killed by the Bellamy crew.”

I raised a brow. “Do you?”

“The streets were blaming them before my son’s body was cold.” Roman picked up his glass but didn’t drink. “The Bellamys have been pressing us over territory for the last year. They lost three corners on the West Side, two clubs, and a supplier who decided working with me was better for his health. Donovan humiliated one of their captains in front of his own men a few months ago.”

“So, they had motive.”

Roman nodded slowly as he took a drink. “A young woman witnessed Donovan’s death. Her name is Sonnet.”

“What did she see?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“You know she witnessed something, but you don’t know what?”

“A police friend pulled the city-camera footage from the area. She was near the lake at the time Donovan was killed.”

“Being near the lake doesn’t make her a witness.”

“No, but she appeared on multiple cameras running from the direction where my son was murdered. She saw something.”

“And you need to know exactly what.”

“That’s why I need her brought to me. I need to know what she saw and who before the police get to her. The police will turn over rocks that have nothing to do with Donovan and use my son’s murder as permission to dig through my entire organization.”

“And you’d rather handle the Bellamys yourself.”

“My son deserves justice from me, not a courtroom.”

Justice was a generous word for whatever Roman planned.

“What happens after you speak with her?”

“She understands that going to the police would be bad for her. Then she goes back to her life.”

“You want me to scare her into silence.”

“I want you to make sure she understands the seriousness of what she witnessed. Bring her quietly. Don’t hurt her unless she forces your hand.”