by Krista Holt
With a nod, I step inside and she pulls an interior iron bar door closed, locking it. I’m the only one in here, so there’s some semblance of privacy, but I have no doubt every move I make is being captured by the security camera discreetly mounted in the far corner of the room.
With my back to it, I find the box engraved with the number 24890 and open it. After checking the contents, ensuring everything is where I left it, I remove ten bundles of hundred-dollar bills and set them to the side.
Next, I grab the burgundy leather-bound passports rubber-banded together and pull the first one free. Flipping it open, I find my picture with the name David DeMarco printed underneath the image. I toss it aside and check the bottom one. Reagan’s picture appears, along with the name Alessandra DeMarco boldly embossed on the thick paper. My thumb quickly runs over her image before I deposit both passports, and the matching set of Italian identification cards, into my jacket pocket.
Reaching back inside the metal container, I locate a small black box. My thumb pushes the lid back, and the stone inside catches the overhead lighting, throwing prisms of light into the air. It’s ostentatious by some standards, coming in at close to 3 karats, but I didn’t want it to be missed. In my mind, this ring represents a promise, but it’s also meant to be a warning. Off limits.
My finger traces the edges of the diamond and its flush setting on a slim gold band. I smile to myself, knowing with any luck, this thing will soon be wrapped tightly around Reagan’s finger. Just like I already am.
After I scoop up the open-ended airline tickets from the bottom of the metal drawer, the ring and the tickets join the passports in my jacket pocket, while the bundles of bills go into the pockets of my heavy overcoat. The weight of the fabric helps disguise the bumps and bulges that come with carrying one hundred thousand dollars in cash.
I press the buzzer for the attendant, and she comes quickly to let me out.
“Did you get everything you needed, Mr. Selvaggio?”
“I did. Thanks.”
Now, I only have one more stop to make.
CHAPTER 12
Reagan
I PACE NEXT TO THE stone bench on the far side of the empty Rayburn lobby.
My heels cover the marble flooring quickly. I’m beyond late getting back from a late lunch. In fact, I’ve been running late all day, ever since I left Nic’s apartment this morning. And now, I’m here, waiting on Simmons, who said he’d be here ten minutes ago.
I check my phone but there are no messages from him, so I pull out my Blackberry and start scrolling through this afternoon’s litany of emails. Capitol Police officers talk amongst themselves over by the metal detectors. I catch them watching me every few seconds, clocking my movements and trading meaningful glances with each other. I haven’t the slightest idea what they’re thinking, but I’m sure it runs along the lines of, is this girl crazy, or not?
And isn’t that the question of the hour? Am I crazy? Or just a little insane?
I honestly don’t know anymore.
A burst of wind rushes through the lobby, and Simmons finally appears. His eyes find mine before he marches toward me. “I’m happy you finally saw my side of things, Reagan. Now, where is it?”
My hand instinctively squeezes the package before I give it to him. “Here.”
He opens it and peers inside. “Everything’s here?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know?”
“He has two phones.”
“You didn’t say anything about that before.”
“That’s because I found out last night. I’d already used that thing—” I gesture toward the envelope Simmons is sliding into the pocket of his tan trench coat “—on the phone I knew about, when the other one started buzzing. That’s how I found it.”
“That’s interesting.” He glances at me, and his eyes take on a faraway look. “Two phones. Which begs the question…which one is the real one? One of them is probably a fake. Maybe he was expecting you to snoop. Maybe that’s always been a part of how he operates. He keeps the damning stuff on a different device. Did you get a look at the other phone?”
“No,” I lie, wanting to keep something to myself. Especially now that he’s blatantly strong-arming me into helping. “It was locked.”
The door opens behind us, and my eyes jump over Simmons’s shoulder and lock with Scott’s interested stare.
“You should go,” I say softly.
He glances over, and upon seeing Scott, nods. “I’ll comb through this as soon as possible. But if I come up empty-handed, we’re going to have to talk about getting that other phone into our possession.”
My gaze darts between Simmons and a rapidly-approaching Scott. “You need to leave.”
“I’ll be in touch,” he says, quickly turning away.
I glare after him, watching as he keeps his face out of Scott’s view and strides out the door.
“Friend of yours?” Scott stops next to me, his eyes following Simmons’s departing back.
“Not really.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nope.”
He stares down at me, the space between his eyes crinkling as he frowns. “What’s with the cryptic answers? Are you irritated with me?”
I sigh, turning toward the elevators with him in tow. “I’m not irritated with you. I’m irritated in general. With life. With the FBI. With Nic.”
“You saw him again?”
“More like he found me.”
The elevator doors push back, and we exit on our floor, heading down the hallway to our office.
“So, what happened?” Scott asks, holding the door open for me.
Before I can answer, Cameron’s voice carries through the reception area. “Reagan, Scott, I need to speak to you both, immediately.”
With loaded glances, we hurry to his office, and he stands up from his desk chair, gesturing for us to come inside. Dressed in a navy suit and white shirt, his gray hair is combed back and his glasses rest on the bridge of his nose.
“Take a seat. I have some news, and you aren’t going to like it.”
Scott visibly tenses next to me. I sense it more than see it as I sit down, keeping my eyes trained on my boss.
“I know how much time and effort you put into this investigation. I may not have been around for the late nights or heavy lifting, but I’m aware of how much work goes into an investigation of this magnitude.” He pauses, weighing his words before he continues, “That’s why, after careful consideration, I’ve decided to suspend this investigation.”
“Why?” Scott blurts out. “We’re finally making progress. We know the whistleblower is affiliated with the Selvaggio Family. We’ve had a whole new vein of potential sources open up for us.”
Cameron’s thick brows draw down over his eyes as he pins Scott with an intimidating look.
“Yes, I know all of this. But, I think you’re forgetting what this committee’s actual function is. It’s designed to ensure the federal government, including all of its agencies, is held accountable for corruption, for fiscal misuse, and for program efficiency. What we do not do is chase after criminals who have shown us first-hand how far they’re willing to go to keep the truth from coming out. Damn it, Scott, your face is barely starting to look normal again, and you, Reagan, you still have to wear clothes that cover up the bruise on your neck! Plus, an intern, one who was tasked specifically to assist the Oversight Committee, is missing. And I think we all know it’s safe to assume he’s dead.”
Cameron’s palms slap down on the top of his desk, and he pushes out of his chair. “I was the one who had to call Trevor’s parents and let them know their son was missing. I was the one who had to explain that my investigation, the one I let proceed after you both were hurt, was likely the reason their son is gone. Do you even understand the enormity of that? Of having to tell two people who dedicated the last twenty years of their life to raising a human being that my investigation, that m
y choices, might be responsible for his disappearance?”
Scott shrinks in his chair, and so do I. We’ve been so focused on our own issues, on making our own headway on this investigation, that we’ve failed to realize the larger impact our choices have had on others, specifically Trevor. It’s heartbreaking to know he’s missing, and that my actions played a role in it as well.
“So, what are we supposed to do?” I tentatively ask.
“Stop working on the case. Take everything you’ve ever had on it and shelve it. Lock it up. Don’t destroy anything, because I’m not entirely sure we haven’t opened ourselves up to an investigation down the road. Chances are there’s going to be some sort of inquest. People are going to want to know what happened to this intern. So put all your work away—actually, no, bring it to me. I’ll lock it up in my safe. That way it’s all in one place and accounted for should it be needed.”
I nod mutely, not sure what else there is to say.
“You should keep your distance from this guy, Reagan, but I’m aware you have other commitments to the FBI. Don’t feel obligated to keep me in the loop regarding your interactions with this man. Please be safe, regardless. Let me know if there’s anything at all I can help you with.”
“Thank you.”
“Scott,” Cameron says, and waits for him to look up. “I know this is a disappointment. I know you had larger expectations for this investigation, but I’m telling you for the safety of everyone involved, drop this. Do not work on it on your own time. Do not try to dig deeper into all of this.”
Scott shakes his head. “I still think there’s an opportunity here.”
“What could there be?” Cameron counters. “We know very little about this world, only what the FBI was willing to share. You have no idea who the known associates for the Selvaggio Family are, and you have no resources to find them. Even if by some stroke of luck you found the whistleblower, then what? You’re actually going to risk this person’s life, risk offering this person up to an entity that wants nothing more than to silence them? Not to mention if something were to happen to you or Reagan along the way. No, there’s nothing more to be done. Drop it, or you’ll be fired. Do you understand?”
An ugly silence infiltrates the room until Scott makes a reluctant sound. “Fine, I understand.”
“Good, you’re both dismissed.” Cameron glances at his computer briefly. “It’s after three, feel free to go home for the day. Start the weekend a little early, with my gratitude for your efforts. I’ll see you both Monday morning, and nothing about it will be related to the mob.”
We stand and quietly exit the room. Cameron asks us to close the door on our way out, and Scott latches it as we leave. A little shell shocked, we stand silently at our desks.
“I guess I’ll go then.” I break the silence first, gathering up my things.
“You know,” Scott clears his throat, “I think you were on to something.”
“You’re going to drop this, right? You heard what Cameron said.”
“I know, I’ll drop it. But I still think you were right.”
“What about?”
“That we aren’t the ones in control of this. Someone else is, and they’re holding all the cards.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “But even if I was right, it’s too late to do anything about it now.”
CHAPTER 13
Nic
I GRAB A YANKEES BASEBALL cap from the back seat and tug it down low before climbing out of the Benz. Planting my foot in an area of Brooklyn that is definitely not my father’s territory, I glance at the busy bar across the street. Vito’s.
The place is an institution. If you’re a Goretti, that is. Day or night, before five o’clock, and in the bleak hours of the morning, you can always find some of them hanging around. Which is why I’m here. I need to talk to the heiress of all things Goretti.
My presence won’t prompt a parade though, so I went back to the house and dressed in jeans and a plain black sweatshirt before I came. It’s as about as incognito as I get, and I hope it buys me enough time to get in and get out.
I cross the street and step inside, scanning the crowded bar. Couples are stowed away in booths, and a few groups of men line the bar, but the woman I’m seeking stands out like a sore thumb. Though, that might have something to do with her sitting on the bar, taking a shot with some idiot who thinks he has a chance with her. Poor guy.
The bartender greets me with a chin lift, wiping the bar down with a white towel as he approaches. “What can I get you?”
“I need a favor.”
“Yeah?” He glances at me quizzically. “What’s that?”
“A drink for the lady.” I gesture toward the brunette across the room, the one who still has her ass on the bar and is laughing at something that idiot is whispering in her ear.
“Uh, buddy, I haven’t seen you around here, so allow me to let you in on a little secret: she’s a man-eater. Lets them buy her drinks but never takes them home. Total tease.”
I fight a smirk. “That right?”
“Yeah, not to mention she’s the only daughter of Daniel Goretti. If any man has left here with her, well, let’s just say, he’s never seen again.”
“Hmm.” I hide my growing amusement by running a hand over my jaw. “Maybe I like a little danger.”
“Your funeral.” He shrugs. “What do you want to send her?”
“Gin martini.”
His lip curls in disgust. “Most guys try champagne.”
“She doesn’t look like a champagne kinda girl, now does she?”
“No, she doesn’t.”
I take out a hundred dollar bill and hand it him. “Make sure it’s the cheapest gin you have, too.”
He pockets the money. “Like I said, your funeral.”
He mixes the drink, complete with the lowest of the bottom shelf gin, and is about to set it down in front of her as I head toward the door. He says something to her and hands her the drink. She scans the room as she brings it to her nose. The smell of cheap, unfiltered gin hits her quickly, and her eyes find me.
I gesture subtly toward outside as she empties the glass in one swallow. I throw open the front door and round the corner into the alley.
Ten…nine…eight…seven…six…
The side door to the bar flings open, crashing against the old brick wall, revealing one pissed-off Italian princess.
“Bella,” I say, my voice equal parts asshole and smug amusement.
She sneers as one hand disappears under her dress, flipping the hem up to an indecent level. My eyes drop to the skin she exposes, almost missing the flash of silver. She doesn’t stop, doesn’t slow down. Even when she reaches me, she keeps moving, hands on my chest, slamming me into the wall.
I grunt with the impact. “Bella, hold on.”
“Screw you.” She pins my left shoulder to the wall, and thrusts something cold and sharp against my neck. “Move, and I make a nick, Nic.”
I choke back a laugh, but it comes out like a growl. Tilting my chin up, I try to move away from her knife.
“Well, well, well,” I taunt, “it seems like Goretti’s little kitten has some claws.”
She pushes her weight onto her toes and digs the blade even further into my skin as she leans toward my ear. “I can’t decide if you’re crazy or suicidal. This is the second time I’ve had to warn you out of my part of town.”
“Your father’s part of town, you mean,” I correct, no longer fighting the smirk that pulls at my lips. “Unless there’s something going on that I don’t know about. I have been hearing some pretty amusing rumors.”
“You mean you stop looking in the mirror long enough to talk to other people? I’m surprised, you Italian men are all so vain.”
A snort escapes me. The action forces the cold metal into my skin, scraping the top layer. Blood wells up a second later. “Would you put the knife down, already, Bella? You’re acting like a love-scorned little brat.”
“It’s bare
ly a scratch,” she scoffs, finally lowering the blade as she steps back. With a flick of her wrist the knife swings closed, hiding the blade in the handle, and a second later the whole thing disappears under the hem of her short dress.
“Thigh holster.” My eyes follow her hands. “Nice.”
“Bite me.” She smooths out the fabric of her skirt. “Now, tell me what the hell you want before Stefan comes charging out here and cuts you into tiny pieces.”
My brow arches, and she smiles at me sardonically.
“Why are you here, Nic?”
“I need a favor.”
One perfect eyebrow shoots up as she crosses her arms over her chest. “What? You need me to off someone for you?”
I smirk, and my thoughts turn to Saul. Wherever he may be.
“No. Not that.” My eyes skim the alley, checking for her guard dog, Stefan. “I’m not sure yet what it might be.”
“And you expect me to grant you a favor? Just like that?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” My hand rubs the back of my neck. “Can’t we just call it one for old time’s sake?”
“Old time’s sake?” She looks me over, suspicion evident. “Are you dying?”
“No.”
“Cancer?”
“No.”
“Testicular cancer?”
“Are you worried about my balls?”
Her face twists in revulsion. “Ewww. No.”
I laugh, she smiles, and for a moment things between us are as they once were. Friendly. It doesn’t last long though. The sound of a nearby horn going off, followed by an aggressive stream of profanity, disrupts the moment.
I clear my throat. “Just promise me that if I call, you’ll answer?”
Her gaze narrows. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Just promise me. For old time’s sake.”
She hesitates, silently assessing me for a few minutes. “Fine. For old time’s sake, I’ll answer if you call. But that’s all I’m promising.”
“Thank you.”
The side door to the bar cracks open, and we freeze.
“Bella, what the hell are you doing in the alley?” Stefan calls out.