Chapter 20
GIANNI
"Miss Wolfe. Back to your desk."
She flinches and I see it. Her breath catches and her eyes flash just a little. Violet flicks her eyes to me, worry on her features. She’s scared of being alone.
My face is empty and my voice level, the same tone I'd use with any employee in any meeting on any given day.
“Miss Wolfe.”
She looks at me with those green eyes, wide and terrified and searching for something in my expression—reassurance, warmth, anything to tell her that the man who’d let her son hold his finger as he walked is still in the room.
He's not.
Right now, there is only Gianni Russo—head of the Camorra, the man with a grand jury four weeks out, a team of federal agents standing in his office, and a woman standing close who might be the reason they’re here.
I don't believe she's a plant. Not after the way she broke down in front of me five minutes ago, the way her voice cracked when she told me he’d beat her. Not after the way her whole body went rigid when the door blew open and that man walked through it.
If she’s acting, then she’s in the wrong line of work; she could win an Oscar with that kind of display.
No. That kind of fear can't be manufactured. I've seen enough liars in my life to know the difference between an act and the real thing.
But I can't afford to be wrong. There’s too much at stake.
Right now, there’s a whole team of FBI agents in my office, led by Lance Dawson, who introduced himself with a handshake and a smile I instantly didn’t like. He strolls around the space like he owns it, like it’s his already and he’s just waiting for the formal transfer.
I need Violet out of this room. Not because I don't trust her, but because whatever is about to happen in this conversation, she can't be part of it.
For her sake and for mine.
"Now, Miss Wolfe."
She opens her mouth to speak, then thinks better of it, closing her mouth and turning on her heel.
She walks past the agents, past Dawson, her eyes fixed on the floor, her shoulders drawn in tight like she's trying to take up as little space as possible, like she’s trying to be invisible—the way she told me she's spent her whole life learning to be.
Dawson watches her leave. His gaze follows her to the door and lingers there for a beat too long-- the way a man looks at something he considers his. His eyes are a terrifying blend of anger and lust.
I file that look away in the part of my brain where I store information that will be useful later, and I turn my attention to the man standing in front of my desk.
The slow-spreading smile returns to his lips. "Mr. Russo, I appreciate you making time for us."
I sit down behind my desk, lean back, and regard him the way I regard anyone who enters this office uninvited—with the patient, unhurried attention of a man who has all the time in the world and no intention of giving any of it away for free.
"You didn't give me much choice," I say.
"We have a few questions regarding your business operations.
As I said, I've recently transferred from the Chicago field office to lead the investigation into Russo Industries.
We're looking into potential RICO violations.
Racketeering, money laundering, wire fraud.
The usual suspects." He smiles at his own joke.
"My attorneys will be happy to address any questions through the appropriate legal channels," I say. "You can contact their office on Monday."
"I'd prefer a more informal conversation."
"And I'd prefer you made an appointment."
Dawson pulls a chair from the wall and sits without being invited. He crosses one leg over the other, settles in, and folds his hands on his knee. His posture is one of relaxation, of comfort, as if he very pointedly wants me to know that he’s not intimidated.
I've been reading men since before this prick graduated from Quantico, and what I see underneath the casual posture is something different.
Hunger.
I see the barely contained energy of a man who needs confrontation, the power play, the moment where he gets to sit across from someone bigger than him and pretend they're equals.
In me, he sees a target and a stepping stone. I don’t plan on giving him the satisfaction of using me for either.
"The grand jury convenes in four weeks," he says. "We've been building this case for over a year. Financial records, witness testimony, surveillance. I won't bore you with the details. Your lawyers will get the discovery package soon enough.”
“In that case, I’m seeing fewer and fewer reasons why you’re here in person, disrupting my work day.”
He narrows his eyes, the easy smile flicking away, just for a moment. “It’s a courtesy. I wanted to introduce myself personally, because I believe in transparency."
"Transparency." I snort. "Is that what you call entering a private office without a warrant?"
"We don't need a warrant for a conversation, Mr. Russo."
"Depends on where this conversation goes. And whether or not your agents keep their hands to themselves.”
I flick my gaze over to one of the agents, a woman taking far too much interest in a note on my desk. My glance chastens her, and she averts her eyes.
Dawson’s smile tightens just a fraction, but I catch it. The mask is good, but it's not perfect. Underneath it, there's something brittle, something insecure and sensitive. With each syllable this man speaks, I become more certain that Violet told me the truth.
“You’re a busy man,” he says. “So I won’t waste too much of your time.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“We know about the shell companies and the port contracts. And we know about David Marino and your ongoing territorial disputes.” He lets the information hang in the air for a long moment before continuing.
“And we know you have other business interests beyond what’s reflected in your corporate filings. ”
"That's a creative interpretation of publicly available information."
"It's a factual summary of evidence that will be presented to a grand jury in twenty-eight days."
I study him, noticing the way he delivers each line in the same measured and practiced manner, as if he's performing—but for himself. As if he’s on stage playing the role of diligent FBI agent and he wants everyone to see just how damn good he is.
It’s obvious he’s the type of man who needs to feel like the smartest person in the room. And maybe at times he is.
But not now. And he can sense it. I’ve been outmaneuvering men like him since Dawson was in high school. In my eyes, he’s just another punk in over his head.
I think about what Violet told me: He beat me. For three years.
I look at his hands. They're average-sized, unremarkable. And I think about those hands on her. On the woman who sleeps curled on her side with one hand tucked under her chin.
Hot anger flickers in my chest. I glance down at my own hands and for a moment I indulge in a fantasy about wrapping them around his neck and squeezing until I feel a crack.
"Agent Dawson," I say. "I've been cooperating with the Bureau for fifteen years, through subpoenas, depositions, document requests—all of it.
And not a single one has produced an indictment, a conviction, or anything more substantial than a line item in your department's budget.
" I stand. "So I'll tell you what I've told every agent who's sat in that chair before you. My attorneys are available Monday through Friday. My office is not open to unscheduled visits. If you wish to speak to me, you will coordinate through proper channels. Anything else will require a warrant, or I will file harassment charges.”
I button my jacket and look down at him. "Are we clear?"
Dawson holds my gaze. The smile is still there, but it’s thinner and tighter, stretched over something ugly. It’s clear now what he’d been hoping for, that he’d march in here, make a big show in front of his agents and my office, and shake me up about what he might do next.
And now he’s shaken up. Good.
He stands and adjusts his badge, then extends his hand one more time. I take it this time. My grip is firm and my eye contact steady.
"Welcome to New York, Agent Dawson."
I let go first, because I'm done.
He leaves with his agents.
I stand at the window and look out at the city and think about the woman sitting at her desk several floors below me, trembling, terrified, waiting to find out if I believe her.
I believe her.
And the man who just shook my hand is going to wish he'd stayed in Chicago.