Blood Runs Cold (Marchesi Loan Sharks #3)

1. Corey

1

COREY

M y world turned upside down because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It really couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d tried. I needed to consult with one of the senior partners in our law firm. His assistant was at lunch, and I didn’t realize he had a client in his office. I knocked, and I swear I heard him grunt, which was his way of communicating simple phrases like “come in”. I opened the door a crack and realized there was a tense discussion in progress. I should have backed away, but the phrases “affected drugs” and “get us all arrested” made me stay. We did contract law, not criminal.

What I overheard that day was pure evil, and now the people behind the criminal organization that involved our senior partners wanted me dead.

Now, I was on a call with a man whose name I didn’t know. He’d sent guards to protect me, and he was supposedly working on getting me to a safe house. The senior FBI agent who was working the case told me I could trust him, but I was skeptical.

I switched my phone to my other hand and wiped my sweaty palm on my pants as I paced my apartment. “I’m not going to be good on the witness stand. I’ll be too nervous to remember the right things to say.”

“You can handle it, you have to. The case rests on your testimony, so we’re counting on you,” the man on the phone said.

“Who’s we?”

A moment passed before he answered. “The people who are keeping you safe.”

“You still haven’t told me who you are.”

“It’s best you don’t know too much about us.” Ever since O’Conner the lead investigator working the case handed me her phone and told me to make arrangements for my protection with the man on the line, I’d been trying to figure out exactly who he was and what the hell was happening. The guards he’d sent to my apartment were intimidating as hell. I’d been afraid of them initially, but they were polite and efficient, and I was thankful to have them.

“Won’t you have to show yourself at the trial?” I asked.

“The FBI will handle the trial. We’re handling your security.” That was the type of non-answer I’d come to expect.

“So you’re not with the FBI?” This hadn’t been clear to me, and no one had answered my questions.

“No.”

I usually trusted easily. That’s how I’d missed that the senior partners at my firm were deeply involved in selling illegal prescription drugs, including ones cut with fentanyl. One of our new paralegals was an undercover FBI agent, but despite his presence, I’d been the one to get the evidence they needed. I prided myself on being optimistic and upbeat, but it was a little hard when a major criminal organization had me on their kill list and I had no idea who the people were who insisted on helping me. “Why can’t the FBI handle my protection?”

“They could, but we’re better, and we have an interest in the case. Trust me.”

How was I supposed to trust anyone anymore? “I don’t even know your name.”

“You can call me X.” Was that supposed to make me feel better? I wasn’t starring in an action film.

“I don’t want to die.”

“Then do what I say. I’m sending some men to pick you up in about an hour. They’ll take you to a safe house where you’ll stay until the trial.”

“I know how slowly the courts move. That will take months or”—Oh God—“years.”

X huffed. “I have some pull. I’m working on pushing this through quickly.”

Who was this man who could take over the duties of the FBI and speed up trial schedules? Someone fucking powerful who I shouldn’t piss off, obviously. “How will I know the men who arrive are sent by you?”

“Because I have people watching your home, and they’ll shoot anyone else who tries to get to you.”

That was to the point. “So no code word or anything?”

“What do you want them to say? ‘The eagle has landed’ or some shit?”

“Well, I mean….”

“Fine. The code word is ‘umbrella’.”

I glanced outside. The sun shone weakly through the haze of clouds. There was no sign of rain or snow, just continued cold. No reason for anyone to have an umbrella. “I guess that will do.” Shit, what was I doing questioning this man’s decision? “Who is in charge of the safe house?”

“His name is Dom.”

“That’s it? No last name like Adele or Cher?”

X sighed. “Dominic Marchesi, and just so you’re aware, Dom isn’t much of a talker. He’s more of a recluse. He’s not going to baby you or anything, but he will keep you safe.”

“I don’t need to be babied, I just?—”

X had already hung up.

How bad was my future bodyguard if the scary man on the phone felt the need to warn me about him? Were they sending me to a fucking demon or what? Did I have a choice? I could pretend I did, but realistically, no. I didn’t have the ability to defend myself. I’d never shot a gun in my life, and I wasn’t even coordinated enough to play pickleball with my colleagues. How the hell was I going to escape from some crime syndicate?

The FBI was leading the investigation. They should be able to protect me, but apparently, they’d handed that duty off. Was that legal? Could I really trust this man? Was he in this for his own gain? Did that matter if he kept me safe?

How would I stand living in some unknown place with a man who was likely going to ignore me unless I was about to die—until whenever the government decided to schedule this trial? Fuck, it could be years.

What about my friends, my job—that was gone anyway since the firm would likely be dissolved with the senior partners in jail for a drug scam.

But I needed a new job. What would I do for money? I would be at the mercy of whomever they stuck me with, the man who “wasn’t a talker.” I’d probably end up talking to the walls, because as my friends could tell you, silence isn’t one of my virtues. Maybe I’d be like Belle in the castle and have to talk to the furniture, though I doubted this man’s would talk back.

I jumped at the knock on my door, even though I should have been expecting it.

“Mr. Thompson. We’re ready to go.” A man called in a rough Boston accent.

I froze. He hadn’t used the code word. Did he forget? Did X not tell him? Or had this man gotten through X’s security?

I heard mumbled talking, then he knocked again. “Hey. Don’t forget your umbrella .” This was followed by deep laughter. Were they making fun of me?

I jerked the door open. The two guys standing on the porch looked like such stereotypical mafia goons, and I couldn’t help but smile despite my embarrassment. They were wearing ill-fitting suits, and they were each over six feet tall and so broad at the shoulders I wasn’t sure they’d fit through the door.

“X sent us,” the thicker one said.

The other one nodded and held out his hand. “I’m Six.”

“And I’m Muffin,” the first man said.

“You’re kidding?” The words popped out before I could stop myself.

Fortunately, they didn’t seem offended. “Not the names our moms gave us or anything, but that’s what you should call us,” Six said.

I wondered what their moms thought about their current profession. I had so many questions, but even I—who put my foot in my mouth on a daily basis—knew better than to ask. These men might be jovial now, but I was sure they were dangerous.

“You ready?” Muffin asked.

I glanced behind me at the suitcase I’d packed. “Will I be able to come back here to get some more things?”

“Everything you need will be provided,” Six said.

Fuck. “Then I guess I’m as ready as I can be.”

Muffin smiled. “Mr. Marchesi will have anything you need and more.”

Both men laughed, and the uneasy feeling I’d had ever since X told me they had someone to watch over me returned. This wasn’t a joke. It wasn’t a vacation.

People wanted me dead, and now I was going to stay with someone who was dangerous and definitely not FBI. Who was this man?

I grabbed my suitcase and the bag I took—used to take—to work every day and let Six and Muffin escort me out.

When would I be back here? Maybe never if the woman I’d seen in Mark’s office got through my security.

“Don’t look so worried,” Muffin said. “You’re in good hands.”

I hoped they were right.