Lindsay #2
I take all that in quietly, turning it over in my mind.
“I’ve had some interaction with the Russians.
Not personal, but someone sabotaged me and fed me wrong information.
I don’t know if he is someone within their ranks, or someone on the outside who intentionally did it.
But it almost cost the life of someone I cared about. They would have killed this person.”
Anger still burns through my skin at the thought of that incident involving Valentina. I failed her.
“Yeah, they’re pretty cold-blooded.” Fadden smirks.
“Which is to be expected considering their roots. While this branch of the Bratva primarily does their business in Jersey, there’s an even bigger overarching control unit back in Russia.
But we don’t need to worry too much about that.
We just need to get them out of our city.
So talk to me about the case. Why RICO?”
“Because a murder charge puts one man in prison.” I slide the file across the desk. “RICO wipes the bloodline off the board.”
I shift in my seat before continuing. “A RICO case isn’t about one crime.
It’s about proving an ongoing crime enterprise through a pattern of racketeering activity.
This means we need at least two predicate crimes.
No judge will sign of arrests without enough evidence of drug trafficking, weapons smuggling, money laundering, and murder.
All things the mafia is famous for, of course.
Our job is to first find proof of that.”
“Which you’ve already got from the file the agent handed to you,” he points out.
“Yes,” I mutter, annoyed at the interruption. “But evidence is only one aspect. We need an insider. Someone willing to take an offer for protection or a reduced sentence. Someone willing to provide us with locations when it’s time to make arrests.”
“I can get someone like that,” Fadden says casually.
My eyes widen. “Seriously? Within the Volkov family?”
“As I said, since the Pakhan’s absence, there’s been some unrest. I’ve been working on flipping a guy within for a couple of months now. He’s close to breaking, and when he’s does, he can provide us with all we need. He just needs a push.”
“Which is what?”
He shrugs. “A belief that the cause he’s fighting for isn’t worth it anymore. True evidence of collapse.”
My face falls. “We can’t guarantee that.”
“We’ll do what we have to,” he says solemnly.
“No one said this was going to be easy, Ms. Beaumont. For now I’ll work on tracing some of their shell companies and offshore accounts.
You need to find a trustworthy judge who isn’t in their pockets.
Someone guaranteed to work fast and sign off on warrants when we need to make arrests.
Are you prepared to represent the state in court?
Once we present the evidence to a grand jury, it should be easy enough to secure indictments.
It’s the getting them there that’s hard. ”
“I understand. And I already have a judge in mind.”
“Good.”
We discuss some other parts of the case for another half an hour before Fadden’s phone starts to vibrate. He brings it out and shoots me an apologetic look.
“Sorry, duty calls,” he states, returning the phone to his pocket and rising. “It was good talking to you, Ms. Beaumont. I’m glad we ran into each other.”
“I’m glad we ran into each other too.” I smile. “And you can call me Lindsay.”
He’s actually not that bad, and the meeting has shown me how good he is at his job. It’s not often you meet someone with strong convictions about what we’re doing.
“Alright, Lindsay,” he says softly. “I’ll see you on Monday and then we can fine-tune our game plan.”
“Yeah. Bye, Agent Fadden.”
He shakes his head. “Edward. And thanks for the book.”
When he leaves, I’m left alone at the café, sipping my mocha latte with a growing pit in my belly. Because I still haven’t been able to shake the feeling that someone’s watching me. And I know I should be scared. But instead, for some reason, I feel protected. Safe.
After our last meeting, I’m almost sure it’s Matteo Vitale. And I’m not sure how to feel about that.
Red vinyl booths line the walls of the diner, worn just enough to show their age without losing their shape.
The lighting is dim, casting everything in a soft glow that makes time feel slower here.
A counter runs along the far side, stools tucked neatly beneath it, a few regulars scattered in quiet conversation.
I eat in silence, letting the noise of the place settle around me. Plates clinking, low voices, the steady hum of something ordinary. By the time I’m done eating, the place has thinned out. I stand, pulling my coat on as I step up to the counter.
“The food was fantastic as always, Maria,” I say to the middle-aged woman behind the counter, sliding cash across “A-plus.”
Her brow lifts slightly when she sees the amount, double the price of the food I ordered.
“Honey—”
“Keep it.”
She studies me for a second, then nods. “You take care of yourself, alright?”
“I will,” I assure her.
I’ve been coming to this diner since I was a teenager. It feels just like home. The bell chimes again as I push the door open, the cool night air replacing the warmth behind me. The street is quieter now. Too quiet.
I step onto the sidewalk, my heels clicking softly as I move toward where I parked.
Something’s off. I glance up. Some of the streetlights are out. There’s stretches of shadow between pools of light farther down the block. I slow, just slightly.
It’s nothing. Probably.
My hand tightens around my bag. Then a sound breaks the quiet behind me. Footsteps. Not mine. And not one. I don’t turn. Not yet. I keep moving, pace steady, controlled. The footsteps don’t fade.
They follow. I quicken my steps and so do they. My stomach tightens.
I look ahead, spotting my car. I can make it. I move faster now, heels striking harder against the pavement, breath tightening as adrenaline starts to creep in.
Think, Lindsay. Think.
I reach into my bag, fingers brushing against nothing useful. Not even pepper spray. Fuck.
Too late for that.
My car is right there. I reach for the handle. And I’m spun around. Hard. My back hits the door, the impact sharp enough to knock the breath from my lungs.
Two men. Both of them big and rough, their presence heavy with something unmistakable. Menace.
One of them speaks, his accent thick, unmistakably Russian.
Damn it. I’m screwed.
“You come with us, pretty girl.”
I don’t respond immediately, already calculating. It’s just two men. If I move fast enough…
I shift my weight slightly, testing the distance, the angle of his stance, the way the other one is stationed just behind him. I could take the first one out. One well-angled punch and a kick in the balls. But then there’s his partner.
My odds aren’t great. Then the second man moves, pulling a gun from beneath his jacket. Everything stills. My eyes lock on it and I recalculate. Adrenaline continues to spike beneath my skin, sharp and electric. I meet his gaze, steady.
“You’re coming with us,” the first one repeats.
My jaw tightens. “Well, you’re going to have to kill me,” I say evenly. “Because I’m not.”
One of the first rules I learned in my self-defense classes is to fight like hell to ensure you’re not taken to a second location. Because if you are, you’ll be in an even worse position than if you’d died at the first.
The one standing in front of me, studies me, something almost like consideration crossing his face. The other one with the gun doesn’t bother. He exhales, irritated.
“Enough,” he mutters, shifting forward.
I see the movement. Too fast. The gun comes up, not aimed, swung. I try to shift, to move, but then pain explodes at the side of my head, sharp and blinding. The world tilts violently as my balance gives out beneath me.
The ground rushes up and sound distorts. The last thought that cuts through the haze is clear. Annoyingly so.
I should have listened to Matteo Vitale.
Darkness takes me before I can hate myself for it.