Dark Truths (Dark Angels #3)

Prologue Dimitri

An unknown number of years ago Washington, DC

“ H ey, man. You want the usual?”

I tear my eyes away from my phone, and the email I’m certain will ruin not just my morning but also my entire week—a skill my boss has mastered—and smile at the man standing at the counter.

“Morning, Carlos,” I greet him as I slip my phone into my suit pocket, effectively ignoring the problem hovering on the horizon in favor of a delicious cup of coffee. “The usual, yes. And if you can add an extra shot of espresso, please.”

“Is it that kind of morning already?” he asks while he accepts the cash from my hand.

When he tries to hand back the change, I motion to the tip jar, and Carlos smiles gratefully before he stuffs the change in the jar. It’s the same routine every time. He never just assumes or expects it, which makes for good customer service, in my opinion.

Still, it’s not easy running a coffee stand in metro Washington, DC, when it seems there’s a chain store on every corner. So when he turns around to brew my coffee, I slip a twenty in the jar too.

“Just have a lot on my mind, is all.”

Carlos bends down to look at me through the small window of his cart. “You’re too young to have so much weight on your shoulders, you know.”

I snort. If only he knew the half of it. As far as Carlos knows, I’m a simple lawyer who enjoys a coffee in the morning on the way to work.

But I’m the farthest thing from a lawyer.

“Listen, man, have I told you about my niece?” Carlos asks with a sly smile when he hands me my steaming cup.

“Yes,” I answer. “You tell me about her almost every time I see you.”

“And one of these times, you’ll actually listen to me,” he teases. “You need a lady in your life, young man. You’re much too handsome to keep it all to yourself.”

“Thank you, Carlos.” I raise my cup in a farewell gesture. “Next time.”

He shakes his head in exasperation. “And you say that every time.”

While I appreciate his thoughtfulness and concern, my job doesn’t leave much time for a relationship. Nothing serious at least. It’s not that I’m against the idea of dating. My job is already stressful enough, and I don’t need a relationship to add any more on top of it. So a date here or there that ends between the sheets for a little stress relief is all I can afford.

Look, I’m sure Carlos’s niece is nice and all, but I wouldn’t want to lose my favorite coffee joint because of her broken heart. She deserves to be with someone who wants more , who can give her that and doesn’t have to hide who he is from her every day.

The weather is shifting in our country’s capital, bringing a noticeable chill in the morning air. I turn the collar of my coat up around my neck to combat the cold bite. I’m much more of a warm-weather kind of guy, but this is where headquarters is, so I have no choice but to be here. When I eventually retire, I may find a tranquil private island with a charming little bungalow, where I can blissfully spend the rest of my life enjoying the sun and water. Until then, I’ll drink my warm coffee and suffer through the snow and cold for a few months every year.

Crossing the street, I gaze up at the building, its name proudly displayed in large, imposing letters.

J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building

Most days, I enjoy what I do. I sometimes feel like I’m making a difference in the world. Other days, it feels like all I do is sit in my cubicle and analyze report after report, identifying suspicious transactions to investigate that end up being nothing half the time.

The elevator doors open to my floor, and I step out, nodding politely to Susan, a secretary who has been here longer than I’ve been alive. She’s practically a grandma to the agents on the floor, and we love her just the same.

“Good morning, Agent Clark,” she says before she holds out a wrapped caramel candy.

See? Grandma.

I pocket the candy with a smile. “Good morning, Susan. How’s Dan?”

“Grumpy that the Cowboys lost last night.”

Her husband, Dan, is a die-hard football fan. They met years ago when they were both widows. Susan claims her first husband sent Dan to her and vice versa.

It’s a sweet story. But not one I ever expect to achieve.

Jacob waits for me at my cubicle with an eager grin on his dark-skinned face. Digging out the candy from my pocket, I toss it his way. He catches it easily and makes a happy little sound before he unwraps it and pops it in his mouth.

“Those things will give you diabetes, you know,” I comment casually while I shrug my wool coat off and stow my bag. “You should just tell Susan I give mine to you.”

Jacob chuckles. “Where’s the fun in that? If I did, you wouldn’t get to see my handsome face every morning.”

“Now there’s an idea,” I tease as I slip the chain holding my badge over my neck. “Did you get the email from Ford this morning?”

“Reason number two why I’m here. Come on, he’s waiting in the conference room.”

Special Agent Ford leads the Washington branch of the FBI’s criminal investigative division. Young and new to the role, Ford is a boss with a need to prove something because he’s a “legacy” or whatever the fuck you call someone whose entire family works for the agency. He’s not my first boss, and he won’t be my last. Something I have to tell myself over and over every time he sends an annoyingly vague email at the ass crack of dawn on a Monday morning ordering a meeting first thing.

“Nice of you to join us, gentlemen,” Ford comments when Jacob and I walk into the conference room.

A glance around the large oval table tells me we’re not even the last to arrive, but if I tell him that, I’m likely to get the short stick of whatever this meeting is about.

Once the last bit of the team arrives, Ford clicks on the screen hanging on the wall and a remote.

The image of a large older man in a suit with dark hair and dark eyes appears.

“This is Sergei Mikailhov,” Ford announces. “He runs the Russian Bratva in Miami, and we have reason to believe Mr. Mikailhov is also part of an organization called the High Table.”

“The High Table?” Jacob repeats.

“Yes, we had a man on the inside, and that was all he could get us before he…” He looks uncomfortable, and it doesn’t take a genius to know this inside man is no longer with us. “Anyway, the director has tasked me with sending in someone new undercover who can continue to gather evidence on the Russians and the identities of the High Table members.”

I close my eyes and bow my head, already knowing where this is going. Jacob knows it too from the way he curses under his breath.

“Dimitri.” The way Ford says my name with just a little too much glee in his voice makes my teeth grind. “You’re Russian, right?”

I meet his eyes. “ Da .”

He smiles like he’s won some kind of prize. Probably has. Because this is the kind of job that could make his career. Mine too. “Excellent. You leave in a week.”

So why does it feel like I’ve just signed my soul away to the devil?