Dom
I wake to memories of last night with Olivia, warm, intoxicating, and dangerous as hell. I swear I can still inhale her scent even though I left her bed hours ago.
It makes me yearn to touch her again. I can’t seem to get enough of her.
I stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in my muscles from our rousing bout of sex.
The way she moved beneath me, above me, against me. The way her eyes locked with mine making me feel this wasn’t just physical anymore.
That's the problem. It's not just sex. Not anymore.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and press my palms against my eyes. What am I doing?
She's FBI. I'm a Don in La Corona.
We’re on a crash course to disaster.
Yet I keep going back. Keep finding reasons to see her. Keep imagining what it might be like if circumstances were different.
The most unsettling part isn't that I'm sleeping with an FBI agent. It's that I'm starting to care what she thinks of me. Starting to want her to see beyond the criminal file she's built.
I've never needed anyone's approval before.
Never wanted to explain myself or my choices.
Now I find myself wondering what Olivia sees when she looks at me. If she can separate the man from the monster she's been chasing for years.
She’s investigating Rocco's kidnapping and digging into Mrs. Ferraza's murder. Is she doing it because she believes in justice, or because she believes in me?
The distinction shouldn't matter, but it does.
My instincts have kept me alive, kept me out of prison, kept the Vitale family thriving. Those same instincts are screaming at me now: Don't trust her. Can't trust her.
It's not just that she's FBI. It's that her identity is built on justice and bringing men like me down. No matter how her body responds to mine, no matter what connection we feel in those quiet moments afterward, her badge comes first.
So why is she fucking me? I don't believe she's doing it to build a case. That's not who she is.
Olivia has too much integrity for a honey trap.
But that same integrity makes her dangerous.
She believes in justice, in right and wrong.
Everything is black and white, and I live in the gray…okay, so I’m often in the black.
But I don’t feel she sees the nuances of right and wrong. I imagine if she ever learns the truth about her father, it will not only destroy her, but it will change how she feels about him even though he was a decent guy and a devoted father.
He just also happened to fix a few things for my father.
Ultimately, she'll have to choose between her oath and whatever this is between us. And I know which way that choice will go.
"Fuck.” What have I let myself get caught up in? How did it even happen? And why do I still want to walk that tightrope? I want more. I want her to understand why I am who I am, why I do what I do.
But that path leads to prison. Or worse.
Let her go, Dom.
I shower, dress in a tailored suit, and force my mind back to business. The docks are waiting, and so are my responsibilities. My business doesn't run itself.
My phone buzzes with updates from my dock supervisor, Vinny. A shipment from Milan arriving today, legitimate designer goods through the front door, other merchandise through the back.
The elevator descends to the garage. I climb into my nondescript black sedan.
I like flashy cars as much as the next guy, but flashy stands out, and I get away with everything I do by not standing out.
I settle into my routine as I drive to the docks. This is what I know. What I can control.
Ships, cargo, men who follow orders.
Not complicated FBI agents with principles and soft skin and eyes that see too much.
Just business. Just power. Just La Corona.
The industrial scent of salt water and diesel fuel hits me as Franco pulls up to the docks.
Franco meets me when I exit the car. “Hey Boss.”
"Everything on schedule?"
"Running like clockwork." He gestures toward the manifest. "Milan shipment's already being processed.”
I head toward the warehouse and notice a man hanging out near the door. “Who’s that?”
“He’s looking for work. Been here since dawn."
"And?" I’m a suspicious man by nature. I have to be in my line of work.
"He's... persistent. Turned him away twice, but he keeps coming back. Says his wife is sick and he's got three kids to feed."
I glance toward the man. He’s maybe thirty years old, clean-cut, wearing clothes that are decent but worn. Desperate eagerness radiates off him.
"Background?"
"Claims his name is Michael Russo. Lives in Queens. Told him we weren’t looking for new hires. Says he’s willing to do anything.”
I arch a brow. “Anything?” That’s often code for someone looking to become a soldier. While no one can pin a crime on me, my family’s business and reputation is well known.
A flash of Olivia crosses my mind. Could this be her play? Send in some fresh-faced kid with a sob story, get him inside my operation?
It would be clever. Less obvious than surveillance or wiretaps.
"Want me to run him off for good?" Franco asks, cracking his knuckles.
"No." I make a decision. "Send him to my office. I'll talk to him myself."
Franco looks surprised but nods.
As I watch the young man being approached, I notice his posture, the slight stiffness in his shoulders that speaks of nervousness.
His reaction when Angelo points in my direction seems genuinely intimidated.
Still, I can't afford to trust appearances. Not with what's at stake. Not with the FBI circling.
If this kid is legitimate, I might help him. If he's not, if he's part of some operation by the FBI or a competitor, well, he'll learn why crossing a Vitale is a mistake no one makes twice.
I study Michael Russo as he sits across from me in my office, his eyes darting around the room, taking in the expensive furniture, the view of the docks through the windows. His hands fidget in his lap.
"So, Michael. Tell me why I should hire you."
"I'm a hard worker, sir. I can do anything, load trucks, clean…” He pauses. “Run errands. Whatever you need. My wife’s medical bills are piling up, and my kids—"
Errands. Another possible code word. I raise my hand, cutting him off. "I've heard about your situation. What I want to know is why my docks? There are plenty of places hiring in the city."
He swallows hard. "My uncle worked here years ago. Said you were fair to your people."
"Your uncle's name?"
"Vincent Russo. He loaded cargo for about five years before moving to Florida."
The name sounds vaguely familiar, but I'll have one of my men verify it later.
He’s not the first person to come looking to join my organization, and I have no reason specifically to question his authenticity except that I’ve got the FBI breathing down my back and someone out to ruin La Corona.
For that reason, I should send him packing.
But if he is a spy, I want to know from who and what his intentions are.
My gut tells me to keep him close where I can watch him.
"I'll give you a chance, Michael. Starting in our warehouse inventory. You'll be logging shipments, making sure what arrives matches our manifests." I tap my pen against the desk.
Relief floods his face. "Thank you, Mr. Vitale. I won't let you down."
"Franco will show you around, get you set up." I stand, signaling the meeting is over. "One more thing, this is a family business. We protect our own. Loyalty matters more than anything."
I watch his reaction carefully as I deliver this subtle warning.
"I understand, sir."
I watch Michael leave with Franco, then immediately call Angelo, one of my captains who manages this area of the city for me.
“I just hired a new kid, Michael Russo. Says his uncle, Vincent worked here.
I want everything on him. And I mean everything.
" I glance out the window where I see Vinny showing Michael toward the warehouse.
"Full background check. School records. Medical history.
Family connections. Bank statements. Social media.
I want to know what cereal he ate for breakfast when he was twelve. "
"You think he's a plant?" Angelo asks.
"Maybe. Maybe not. But I'm not taking chances. Work with Vinny to get his prints off whatever he touches today. Run them through our system, see if anything pops. Check if he's ever been arrested, even as a juvenile."
"You want surveillance?"
"Nothing obvious. But yes, I want to know where he lives, who he talks to." I pause, considering. "And check if his wife is sick. Hospital records, insurance claims. If he's lying about that..."
“You think he’s from another family or law enforcement?”
Something that feels like guilt burns in my gut. "Check for any contact between him and Agent Ricci, but be discreet. Very discreet."
"And if we find something suspicious?"
"Then we handle it. Quietly." Fucking hell.
I end the call with Angelo and am about to head out when my phone vibrates. I check the caller ID. Alphonso, my accountant. Not a good sign. He never calls unless something's gone sideways.
"What is it, Al?"
“Got a discrepancy in the accounts.”
“How much?” A discrepancy is usually bad math from someone in the organization, but on occasion it’s embezzlement. I can’t think of anyone stupid enough to try it now, but there’s no accounting for stupid sometimes.
“Half million.”
“Fucking hell, Al and you’ve only just—”
“It’s only just popped up. The records from the clubs.”
“Georgio?” He oversees all my clubs and restaurants.
“No. Darius.”
Darius manages illegal gambling that I run through the clubs. What the fuck is he thinking?
“How did you miss this?”
“Like I said, the records have all added up until today. I haven’t told anyone, but I believe he’s been away so someone else ran the reports and sent them to me.” There’s a pause. “Matteo Puccini.”
“So Darius has been embezzling and doctoring the records?” I’m already heading to Darius. I’m going to get my money and fire him from life.
“That’s what it looks like.”
“I pay you a shit ton of money to notice things like this.”
“I can’t notice what isn’t there.”