The overwhelming smell of fresh paint lingered around the front doorway as I watched Marco search for the correct key needed to unlock the top bolt of the apartment door.

My eyes carelessly wandered around what appeared to be a newly remodeled hallway, with stainless steel chandeliers, light grey painted popcorn walls, and large overly artistic paintings hung up between every other apartment door. Purely white-framed canvases with dripping streaks of neon-red paint running horizontally on a black backdrop.

My mind tangentially drifted to the bewilderment of my brother's death...

It was a convenient factor, him dying the same day of my release. Only a handful of people would have known about the early discharge—the Montanari and my own.

Neither of them has the proper motive to kill an FBI agent. Marco claimed to not know the situation, only that his clients were being hassled and ransacked by the local authorities.

It's a simple thing for cops to put two-and-two together, but sometimes they don't look at the bigger picture. The killer must have had some balls, for what he's done. The repercussions of this act have already begun stirring up the city—cops and criminals alike.

The looped paradox of the painting caught me off guard as Marco opened the door.

"Here we go," he said, waiting for me to walk in. "Home sweet home."

Inching inside, my eyes immediately noticed the dark oak-stained imitated-hardwood tiles dispensing all through the condominium. The main foyer devours the full attention of anyone who walks in, the immediate fluidity appeared as it was inspired by post-modern magazines, with an open concept architecture that captivated your immediate attention.

I felt the warmth of Marco's hand gently caressing the back of my neck as he guided my long locks onto one side.

"I missed you, Kitten," he whispered in my right ear as he slid his hands down to my shoulders.

His intentions were those that I'd dreamt up for months. My body trembled by his singular touch as I melted my eyes closed and leaned my relaxed neck towards the side. I didn't want him to stop.

"Six months is a long time," he continued to tease as he grabbed my waist, easing my body back into his. "You feel that?"

The thought alone dampened me. My body yearned for something good, something pleasurable, after all the harshness and ill-treatment, I needed this. I wanted this. But then the thought of Rafael came to my mind...

It was, after all, he who put me undercover and pushed me into Marco's arms. His idea to go after the Montanari family from the inside—now he's dead, no, murdered.

Stopping Marco's gestures, I pulled my body back into composure. I turned around and grabbed his face for one hard-pressed kiss before whispering back the most demeaning phrase I can think of, "Not yet."

"Not yet?" I turned away from the whines of a desperate man, "You're just gonna leave me here, like this?"

Turning back would only build up the situation even more. I needed him to bring himself at bay—I was only a few hours freed and sex was on the bottom of my to-do list, for now.

Stumbling across what appeared to be the formal living room; three black leather sofas were placed in a particular 'U' formation centering around a stone-tiled electric fireplace with an egocentric large flat-screen TV mounted right above. I was curious to know more facts, if any, were released to the public about Rafael. I looked ahead at the matching glass-top coffee table for a TV remote. There wasn't one in sight.

I then turned around and hesitantly asked, "Where's the remote?"

"All the electronics in this place are powered by Alexa. She's installed within the walls, just say what you want to do." He walked up beside me, "Alexa, turn on the TV."

A quick chime echoed throughout the entire apartment before the large flat screen turned on. The AI was around before my incarceration, but I haven't seen it used in this format before. It felt as if I walked into an episode of Black Mirror—intriguing, yet, intrusive.

I interjected, "So if I say, Alexa, show me NBC News."

The chime immediately echoed once more as the television flipped to the network channel.

"See, you got it." No matter what it was, Marco was constantly infatuated with receiving the most updated tech. He was that guy who owned the first iPhone prototype in 2007, a year before its official release.

For me, it didn't matter. Just if the job gets done, I didn't care if I was using old tech or new.

I took a glance over and saw my father appearing on the large screen. The bold news headline read:

BREAKING NEWS: FBI AGENT FOUND MURDERED SON OF CPD CHIEF SUPERINTENDENT.

The live camera panned outward displaying crowds of people in front of our two-story cottage home in Avondale.

"Figured they'd hold a conference," Marco added before plunging into the sofa. I kept my eyes on the screen as I sat down beside him.

My father, Robert Caruso, eagerly stood behind a makeshift microphone-filled podium. Wearing his official ensemble Superintendent outfit, he was prepared to make a statement out of political necessity and gain. He, like Marco's father, was too, a man of the people.

My stepmother, whose blue eyes were swollen from the tears, stood behind him grasping a pastel-pink handkerchief that matched her modest A-line quarter-sleeved summer dress. The two were the epitome of opposite attraction.

The herd of reporters immediately became silent as Robert began to speak.

"I spoke this morning with Mayor Daley as he and his staff conveyed their deepest condolences for my oldest son. At the age of thirty-six, Rafael Caruso was the youngest Deputy Director of Digital Forensics for the FBI. It has been an unwelcome blessing that he did not leave a next of kin, as he believed so fondly that no one should feel the pain of losing a father or husband. Unfortunately, as parents, we wish no one should ever feel the heartache of losing a child."

"Any mention of his partner?" Marco interjected, wondering if Rafael came clean to Robert regarding his sexuality.

I immediately shushed him as I continued to observe the current dilemma unfold.

"We still do not know all the facts. What we do know is that this was an isolated, calculated, and personal attack on my son. As I told the Mayor, there is no possible justification for these kinds of attacks. We are currently working in conjunction with the FBI; anyone involved in this senseless murder will be held fully accountable. Justice will be done."

The news headline immediately changed to BREAKING NEWS: CHIEF'S SON MURDERED. JUSTICE WILL BE DONE.

"My family and I will be holding a small, private, awake here at our Avondale home for those who would like to come and pay respects to our son. Please, I ask you to be respectful, this is a very sensitive matter and we kindly ask for some privacy from the press. That is all."

A wave of loud unidentifiable questions was immersed from the reporters. "Do you have any leads?" A few voices coherently yelled.

"At this time," Robert announced, "we are working to apprehend a person of interest. However, due to the high-profile nature and sensitivity of the case, I cannot say who this person is. "

"Will this case be postponing your layoff?" One reporter quickly chimed in.

"I have no knowledge of any layoff rumors; the Mayor and I are on good terms. No further questions, please." He stated while grabbing my stepmother's arm to begin walking off the platform.

"How about your daughter, Rebecca?" One reporter vaguely yelled. "Do you believe her supporters have any involvement with this case?"

My father stopped. The live camera zoomed onto the dreadful expression building on his face.

"Let me make this clear once again, I have no daughter." He blatantly scoffed before turning around and walking away.

The live conference quickly ended with the news station switching to their standard segment with two recognizable anchors sitting at a desk.

"I'm sorry, Kitten." Marco leaned in and placed his right arm over my shoulder for a comforting hug. "It's not fair the way they toss you aside like that."

"I'm not." I wasn't saddened nor surprised with Robert's statement—I knew beforehand, since my incarceration, that my actions disappointed and disgraced the family name.

I mean, the Chief superintendent's daughter killing two of their very own officers; I get the grudge. It just seemed a bit odd that my father proclaimed his disgrace during a publicized press conference. Normally Robert kept his family matters and opinions private from his work. Unless...

Maybe it meant something more?