"Doctor Whitly," he greeted the man in front of him. Cooly, politely. As he had been trained to do. "My name is Ian Corbin. I'm with the FBI."
"The FBI." A low, speculative hum sounded deep in Martin Whitly's throat. "And to what do I owe this pleasure? If," he quipped, an affable smile appearing through his whiskers, "this is a pleasurable visit?"
"I've come to speak with you about your son, Malcolm, actually."
"I didn't think the FBI started recruiting at Malcolm's age." Whitly sat back in his chair and regarded Ian through shrewd eyes. "He's not even twenty."
"Malcolm has a spot waiting at Quantico once he finishes school and is old enough."
A hint of that madness lurking beneath that genial facade appeared in Whitly's eyes for a brief moment. It confirmed what Ian Corbin already knew: that Martin Whitly hid his predatory nature beneath a carefully crafted mask of polish and sophistication.
Challenge his control, his beliefs, and the monster surfaced.
And it was the monster he wanted.
Not the man who considered himself Malcolm's father.
"Well, I'm afraid that's rather unfortunate as my son will be going into the family business."
Ian didn't have to guess as to what family business Whitly meant. It took all his willpower to not reach across that line and pop Whitly in the mouth.
Hitting Martin Whitly, while satisfying, wouldn't help Malcolm. And he's why I'm here, he reminded himself as he stared at Whitly.
"I'm afraid you will be disappointed then, Doctor Whitly. Malcolm has no interest in following in your footsteps." Something Malcolm made quite clear in all the conversations they had. "He wants to make something of himself that brings him pride and pleasure."
Whitly's eyes narrowed. "And what do you know about my son and what he wants?"
"I know more about Malcolm than you do."
"I'm his—"
"Father?" Ian took a step forward. Courting the line he had been told not to cross by the orderly sitting just outside Whitly's comfy cell. "If you were his father than you'd see that what you're doing to Malcolm is causing him harm and stop it."
"And what exactly have I been doing that is causing my son this harm?"
Ian dropped the handful of letters Sorcha found in one of Malcolm's desk drawers at Whitly's feet.
"You've been sending him letters containing veiled threats."
"Ah, those are private."
"They also stop."
"Or else what?"
"Or else I will dive into your case file, Doctor Whitly. I know there are more than twenty-three victims. Many more. And I will find them if you don't leave Malcolm alone."
And I will use them to get you thrown into Rikers.
Those silent words hung in the air between them.
For Ian Corbin they were not a threat.
They were a promise.
A/N: Hello, all! Hope this finds you well!