#Chapter246
He sighs, a man who doesn’t explain his actions to anyone and yet here he is, having to tell a mere woman, the lowest in the pecking order in his world. He tenses that strong jaw and blows out his breath in a show of minor frustration before picking up a cushion and pulling it onto his lap to rest his hand on top of. Stilling his hands, I guess, and I mentally screw up my nose at our shared trait.
/"Santagato’s son is a piece of shit who murdered a prostitute in cold blood several years back. NYPD couldn’t pin it on him and her father, who was a detective at the time, took early retirement. He had a breakdown in which he pistol-whipped Marcus Santagato in an interview and developed a drinking problem./"
