CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Tierney
Supervisory Special Agent Thomas N. Rothwell leaned against an ancient microwave on a cheap Formica counter, ankles and arms crossed, the picture of stoic brutality.
He looked completely out of place yet perfectly at ease.
The man had jet-black hair cut neatly and dark-blue eyes framed by thick-rimmed Clark Kent glasses. He had a jawline Hollywood heartthrobs could only dream of and the body of a Greek god.
Rothwell was the kind of handsome to make women stupid and men feel threatened. I’d tried luring him into my bed over the years—he was one of the few men I knew Achilles wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill—but he appeared to be faithful to his one and only love: his job.
He acknowledged my presence by flicking his gaze my way and tucking his phone into a pocket, elevating a dark brow.
“Thomas N. Rothwell.” I tasted his name on my lips as I swaggered in his direction, tipping my ball cap like a cowboy. “That’s quite a mouthful. What does the N stand for?”
“None of your business.” He brushed stray lint off his immaculately pressed shirt.
A white-collared Gieves & Hawkes, if I wasn’t mistaken, and I was never mistaken when it came to luxury brands.
He’d paired it with tailored Dior chinos and Jimmy Choo leather oxfords.
No visible logo on any of these items. Old-money telltale.
“Tell me, Mr. Rothwell.” I dragged a teasing fingernail along the center of his muscular pecs.
“Did the Federal Bureau of Investigation announce a budget overhaul I’ve missed?
Last I checked, FBI agents—even senior ones like yourself—can’t afford a seventy-two-hundred-dollar getup for a day in the office.
” My black nail traced noticeably sculpted abs, stopping at his thin Hermes belt, also logo-less.
“Make that eighty-two hundred.” I offered him a flirty wink.
He flicked my hand off, not a muscle in his entire face twitching. “See my previous answer.”
“Refresh my memory?”
“None of your business.”
Oh, he was good.
But I was better. And I needed to put my point across before I left this godforsaken place.
“You know, I’ve done my research on you. God forbid I put trade secrets in the wrong hands and accidentally harm my own family.”
He stared at me with an eerily calm expression that sent a chill down my spine. He refused to humor me by asking what I found out. Just as well, as I wasn’t about to keep him guessing.
“A bachelor’s in computer science from MIT and a master’s in legal studies from Cornell put you on the fast track into the J.
Edgar Hoover Building. You were tailor-made for the FBI.
Almost like you sought them out. You’ve been with the bureau for twelve years, and the only way you’re going to leave is in a coffin. ”
No response. Just the disinterested glare of a man who found me as appealing as yesterday’s microwaved dinner. I continued.
“You’re the best in your field, and putting Don Vello in prison will be your golden ticket to promotion.
Senior Executive Service, right? You want this, bad.
You work twenty-five hours a day. No wife.
No girlfriend, either. Also—and please don’t take offense—very few friends, if any.
You like your grandma, I’ll give you that.
But other than Jean Rothwell, the only person I could find whose name you included in your will, is already dead.
” I tapped my pouting lips, frowning. “Makes you wonder where all this motivation and hunger are coming from.”
He glared at me, unimpressed. “You done?”
“Almost,” I said cheerfully. “I am very interested in giving you the Ferrantes’ heads, but I have a few hang-ups.”
“Shoot.”
“You can have Vello, Achilles, and Luca. But you’re leaving Enzo, Lila, and Tiernan alone.” I drew a line in the sand. “In fact, I will need it in writing that none of this blows back on my brother’s family.”
“I’m not interested in the Irish or the woman.” The hard-ass crossed his arms over his chest. “I can give you guarantees they’ll be safe. But Enzo’s going down with his brothers. He’s the enforcer, Tierney. Got a lot of blood on his hands.”
I squinted at the tiny square window in the nail salon’s kitchenette, tsking. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, then.”
“Of course you can.” Tom pushed off the counter, hands tucked inside his front pockets now.
He stepped into my personal space, a waft of his unapologetically masculine scent—musky leather, bourbon, and something clean and fresh—invading my senses.
“You’re driven by vengeance, and you’ve been wanting to see Achilles pay for his sins for years now.
I can make that happen.” His voice dipped low, burrowing under my skin and digging into the crevices of my conscience.
“Give me information on the Ferrantes, and I’ll give you his head.
You’ll get full immunity, a new identity, and security around the clock. ”
“There’s only one problem with your plan,” I said.
“Enlighten me.”
“My love for my family has always outweighed my hate for my enemies.”
“Enzo’s not your family.”
“He’s Lila’s. She loves him. And I love her. If you can’t carve Enzo out of this deal, I’m walking out this door right now.” I swung my thumb to the front of the store.
Tom clutched his jaw. Clean, square fingernails. But I knew better than to buy into his slick-and-proper exterior. The bogeyman lay underneath. Someone quiet and frightening who thrived in the dark. “Give me two minutes.”
He threw the back door open and disappeared to make a call.
I pulled out my phone, checking my messages.
My mind drifted back to Achilles. I was sure his day was as chaotic as mine if not more, after the stunt he pulled in Naples.
And because I was a softhearted idiot, a pang of guilt pierced through my chest.
He made you choke on his cock. Slapped you with his dick.
Okay, but I actually liked those things. Just thinking about them made my thighs clench around nothing and fantasize about a repeat.
Truth be told, our weekend together wasn’t what brought me to this moment with Agent Rothwell.
Yes, he used me as his sex doll for forty-eight hours, but I initiated the deal and, with over twenty orgasms under my belt, was more than a willing victim.
No. What made me sell Achilles and his father to the feds was the last decade of my life and the way he used it as a weapon against me—stalking, murdering my lovers, and calling all the shots for me.
Tom pushed the door open again, bathing the small room with sunlight. He closed it behind him. “You think Enzo’ll turn against his family for immunity?”
“No chance.” I folded my arms over my chest.
“Then the best I can do is look the other way when we come for them and let him run.”
“Will you chase?” I squinted, studying him.
“Not for the first three or four days.” Tom checked his phone for the millionth time before pocketing it.
“I can stall them, but I can’t stop them.
As I said…” Tom lamented slowly, as though I was a petulant child, “Ferrante Junior has a rap sheet longer than a Dostoyevsky book. He is a murderer. Now that I secured your brother and his wife’s freedom, how about we get down to business? ”
It was time to fess up. I was the chink in the great Ferrante wall of security.
But all you needed was one hole in a dam to drown everything.
Though the alliance between the Ferrantes and the Callaghans was fairly new, I’d kept tabs on their business for years.
I knew every dirty secret about their operations and had evidence to back them up.
“I’m leaving the country in the next few hours.” I twisted off my ball cap and shoved it into my back pocket. “So the USB will have to do.”
“Where’re you headed?”
“None of your concern. Whatever you need, you’re going to have to get it before midnight. Which reminds me—I have a few loose ends in need of tying. I better go.”
He couldn’t stop me, since the FBI had absolutely zero ammo on me. I was as clean as a whistle as far as they were concerned, so any information I had was going to be given voluntarily.
“Are you in trouble?” he asked.
“I am trouble, Agent Rothwell.” I grinned from ear to ear. “Don’t worry about me.”
He raked his gaze over my face, pulling out a business card and a pen from his pocket and jotting something.
“There’s a safe apartment two blocks down from here.
After you’re done taking care of your travel arrangements, meet me there.
We need statements and recordings to go with the evidence.
I trust I don’t need to tell you this conversation never happened. ”
I saluted him.
“Oh, and, Tierney?”
“Yes?”
“The USB.” He opened his palm. Rummaging through my back pocket, I placed it in his hand. It was full of evidence I’d collected over the years of the Ferrantes’ wrongdoings. Of course, I omitted every single bad deed done by Enzo and Tiernan.
“Straight to the apartment,” Tom reminded me.
“Yessir.” I half turned, about to return to the salon.
He threw a glance at my shiny black nails. “Go for short, colorless nails. Less distinguishable. And change the color of your hair, or they’ll find you in two seconds flat.”
He disappeared before I had time to thank him.