Chapter 24
GIANNI
"He won't stop."
Violet’s in the chair by the window in my office. She’s composed, but she’s worried.
I don’t blame her at all. She’s been running from Dawson for a year, and now he’s here in every part of her life—work and home.
“I know this is hard,” I say. “But tell me what you can. I need to know everything.”
“Lance doesn’t operate like a normal agent.” She pauses, trying to find her words. “He doesn’t follow protocol unless the protocol works for him. For him, the FBI is just a way for him to advance his own status, make himself look good. And gain some power in the process.”
“He’s dirty,” I say.
She nods. “Yeah. Dirty.”
Spackman is in the office with us, leaning against the wall beside the door with his arms crossed. I need him here for this conversation. He knows the Bureau and knows how it works. And he knows men like Dawson.
He leans forward just a bit. “Tell me what you’ve heard or seen,” he says. “I’ve got friends in the FBI. They tell me Dawson has a reputation—golden boy on the surface, corrupt as hell underneath.”
“He’s dirty, like I said,” she repeats, her tone without the slightest trace of hesitation. “He took bribes, blackmailed people. I overheard him on the phone talking about it more than once. He wasn’t ashamed at all—he thought it was proof of how smart he was.”
Spackman snorts. “It’s a kind of smart. Dawson’s been moving up the ranks, has enough clout to position himself at the spear tip of this investigation.”
“And he’s trained his sights firmly on me,” I say. “He’s working with the U.S. Attorney’s office, and he’s not shy about getting aggressive about it.”
Spackman pauses, as if assembling a mental list. “Just got word this morning that he’s trying to push the grand jury timeline up.”
“By how much?”
“Three days.”
“And our legal team?”
“So far, they’re holding the line. But Dawson’s not letting up. He’s citing exigent circumstances, ongoing criminal activity. Prick’s even calling you a flight risk.”
He’s good. As much as I want to underestimate Dawson, to imagine him just as some abusive, arrogant prick in over his head, he’s so much more.
"Flight risk?”
"Yep. He's building a narrative that you're likely to flee the jurisdiction or destroy evidence if the hearing is delayed. It’s not the strongest narrative, but it could convince the right judge—maybe the right corrupt judge."
I let the information settle. Dawson’s on a mission, and he has the brains and institutional knowledge to pull it off. He’s a formidable enemy.
I think about his hands, about him putting them on Violet, using them to hurt her. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again. He won’t stop at her—men like him never do. He’ll hurt her and it’ll be only a matter of time before he hurts Patrick.
I won’t allow it.
Something moves through me. At first, I think it’s anger. But it’s not that. Anger is more reactive and temporary. It flames up and burns out. No. This is colder and slower, more patient.
And it’s a realization.
He touched what's mine. He hurt what's mine. And he's standing in my city, in my building, using the full weight of the federal government to try to do it again.
I will dismantle him. Piece by piece, document by document, until there's nothing left of his career, his reputation, or his ability to come within a hundred miles of Violet and Patrick.
If the legal route doesn't work—if the courts and the lawyers and the procedural motions aren't enough—then I'll use the other tools at my disposal.
"What's our exposure?" I ask.
Spackman pushes off the wall and steps over to the chair across from my desk, easing into it.
"The shell companies are insulated. I spent two years building those walls, and they'll hold under standard discovery.
The port contracts are clean on paper—Marino's interference muddies the waters, which actually helps us, because any financial irregularities the prosecution finds are more likely to trace back to his operation than ours. "
"And the witness?"
"Still unidentified. Dawson referenced 'corroborating testimony' in his last filing, which means someone’s talking. If it's one of Marino's people, we can discredit them. If it's someone inside our operation..." He pauses. "That's a different problem."
"Find out who it is."
"Working on it."
I turn to Violet. She's watching the exchange with an expression I've come to recognize. It’s a quiet absorption, the working of a mind that’s more brilliant than she lets on.
"What else should we know about him?" I ask. "Not the agent. The man. He’s smart, he’s dirty. What else?"
She's quiet for a moment. Then: "He needs to win. Not just professionally—personally. Every interaction is a contest, and if he doesn't come out on top, he escalates. It’s all ego, this insane need to be the smartest guy in the room, the most important.”
“Pure narcissism,” Spackman comments. “Far more common than you’d think in places like the Bureau, unfortunately. Lots of God Complexes.”
“Narcissist,” she repeats. “That’s the word. The worst thing you can do to Lance is make him feel small, because that's when he gets angry. And reckless."
"Reckless is useful,” I say. “Reckless means sloppy.”
"Reckless is also dangerous. When Lance gets reckless, people get hurt." She looks at me steadily. "He's not stupid, Gianni. He's just willing to go further than anyone expects. That's how he's survived this long."
Willing to go further than anyone expects.
I file the sentence away as a useful piece of intelligence, because it tells me exactly where his breaking point is—not at the limit of his courage, but at the limit of his ego.
Push the ego hard enough, and the strategy collapses into something personal and sloppy.
I know how to push.
A sharp, purposeful knock sounds at the door, the particular rhythm of someone who doesn’t want to kept waiting. I have a sense of who it is before I even open the door.
"Come in," I say.
Theresa enters. She's in full armor today—tailored navy blazer, hair perfect, everything composed. Her eyes sweep the room, land on Violet, and narrow just a bit.
"Gianni. I need a word." She glances at Spackman, then back at Violet. "In private."
I hold the pause for exactly long enough to remind her that she doesn't set the terms of meetings in my office. Part of me wants to dismiss her for her impertinence. Then I remember who she is in my organization—a role she earned and does well.
I nod. "Violet. Chad. Give us a minute."
Violet passes Theresa in the doorway without making eye contact, and the air between them crackles with the particular energy of two women who don’t care for each other one bit.