Olivia
My head throbs as I weigh my options. Kidnapped or dead. What a choice.
"I need to think," I say, pressing my palm against my temple where a nasty bump has formed. The room spins slightly when I try to stand again.
He gives a derisive laugh. “Gee, thanks.” Dom steps forward, his hand hovering near my elbow but not touching me. "You need to rest."
I sink back onto the edge of the bed, studying him.
This man who's been my target for years.
This man who's been inside me.
This man who just saved my life, allegedly.
For all I know this is a scheme to make me think he’s saved me but instead a ploy to stop me.
"How convenient that you happened to be outside my apartment," I say, the suspicion in my voice unmistakable. "Were you following me?"
His jaw tightens. "Yes."
At least he doesn't lie. But that doesn't mean I can trust him. For all I know, this could be an elaborate setup. Get me to trust him, feed me false information, manipulate me into dropping my investigation.
“Why?”
“Because I knew you’d poke a bear and someone would come.”
"Why should I believe anything you say?" I ask. "You could have orchestrated that attack yourself."
"If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn't have gotten sliced up protecting you." He pulls back his sleeve, revealing a hastily bandaged wound. “
My legs feel weak, my body drained.
The truth is, even if I wanted to leave, I'm in no condition to defend myself.
And if someone in the FBI is truly behind this, my apartment isn't safe.
"Fine," I say finally. "I'll stay. For now."
Dom nods, visibly relieved.
What he doesn't know is that staying serves my purpose too. If there's any chance Dom knows more about Blackwood's involvement in these cases than he's letting on, this might be my only opportunity to find out.
I need evidence, not just suspicions.
"But this isn't a vacation," I add. "And it doesn't change anything between us."
"Of course not," he says, but the slight curve of his lips tells me he doesn't believe it any more than I do.
I look away, refusing to acknowledge the flutter in my stomach. This is about survival and justice, nothing more.
I wake with a start, my FBI training kicking in as I register unfamiliar surroundings.
The events of yesterday flood back.
The attack, Dom carrying me away. The doctor examining my injuries.
My head still throbs, but the fog has lifted somewhat.
"You're awake." Dom's voice comes from beside me.
I turn to find him sitting in an armchair next to the bed, dark circles under his eyes suggesting he's been there all night.
His protective vigilance stirs something in me I'd rather not examine.
“What time is it?”
“Nearly eleven in the morning.”
I’ve never slept that long in my life. I feel like I’m wasting my day. “We need to talk strategy," I say, pushing myself up against the pillows. "If someone in the FBI is behind these cases, we should pool our information. You know things I don't, and I have access to files you can't reach."
Dom shakes his head. "The only strategy you need right now is rest and recovery."
"I don't have time for that luxury," I argue. "Someone tried to kill me because I'm getting close to something. We can help each other."
I attempt to stand, but a wave of nausea has me covering my mouth and looking for the bathroom.
“Shit.” Dom rises quickly and guides me to the bathroom.
I drop in front of the toilet. “Go away.” The last thing I need is for him to see me puke. I’m vaguely aware that he’s still there as I retch into the toilet bowl. How embarrassing.
When I’m done, he helps me up. “Here’s a toothbrush and toothpaste, and a glass of water.”
My body feels like a wet noodle as I go through the motions to brush my teeth and drink some water. Then Dom helps me back to bed.
“I’ll get a bucket or something just in case you need to get sick again.”
God, just shoot me now. “I feel better.” Mostly. “We need to—"
"You have a concussion," he counters, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. "And you're still in shock whether you admit it or not."
“I can’t just lay around. I’m sure people are looking for me, but I need answers.”
"No one's looking for you."
His words stop me cold.
"What?"
"No missing persons report. No urgent calls from the FBI wondering where their agent disappeared to. Nothing."
The revelation opens a gaping hole in my soul. I've been gone overnight, missed work, and nobody's raised an alarm? Not even Blackwood? If he’s behind this, wouldn’t he want to cover his ass?
"That's impossible. The Bureau has protocols—"
"I have people who would know if there was any official search for you." His expression softens. "I'm sorry."
The silence that follows feels suffocating. I've dedicated my life to the FBI, sacrificed any semblance of a personal life for my career, and now... what? I'm expendable? Or worse, my absence is convenient?
"Maybe they just haven't noticed yet," I say, but the words sound pathetic.
Dom doesn't contradict me, but his eyes tell me he knows better. For the first time, I feel truly alone.
“If it’s any consolation, I’d have come looking if you went missing.”
Tears spring to my eyes, highlighting again how empty my life is that the one person who’d care enough to look for me is a mafia criminal.
I decide to change the subject. "Did you kill him? The man who attacked me.”
Dom's eyes meet mine, dark and unreadable. "No. He got away."
His tone is a mixture of regret and frustration that tells me he wishes the outcome had been different. The realization should disturb me more than it does.
"Would you have killed him?" I press, not sure why I need to know.
"Yes." No hesitation. No remorse. Just simple truth.
I should be repulsed by his casual acceptance of violence as a solution.
Instead, I find myself wondering what it would be like to live in a world where justice doesn't require paperwork, where threats can be eliminated rather than processed.
"Would you have arrested me if I had?" Dom asks, watching me carefully. "For protecting you?"
Would I? "It would have been self-defense," I say, avoiding a direct answer.
"That's not what I asked." His voice remains gentle, but insistent. "Would you have put cuffs on me after I got stabbed for you?"
“No.” And there it is. The truth I've been avoiding.
The lines I once thought were clear are blurring. In Dom's world, protection means elimination of threats.
In mine, it means due process, evidence, trials. But what happens when the system I believe in becomes the threat?
"Your world and mine aren't so different, Olivia," Dom says, as if reading my thoughts. "We both want to protect what's ours. We just have different methods."
"The law exists for a reason," I counter.
“But who makes the laws? A drug dealer goes to jail and a pharmaceutical company gets rich.”
“That’s different. Pharmaceuticals help people feel better.”
“And other drugs don’t?” He arches a brow.
“Drug companies follow regulations and don’t kill people.” The minute I say it, I know he’s going to point out how untrue that is.
“Tell that to all the people who died from opioids. You can break the law if some moral code says it’s okay. Robin Hood stole from the rich and gave to the poor, hurray for him. Madoff stole from the rich and kept it. He goes to jail.”
“Robin Hood isn’t real.”
“Okay, gambling is against the law, but many states run lotteries. Prostitution is against the law, but porn isn’t. Both involve selling sex.”
“That’s not the same.”
“Okay, murder is illegal and yet we have the death penalty.”
“Not in New York.”
He smirks. “The Federal government still has the death penalty.”
“The law isn’t perfect, but it protects us. You’re all about protection.”
He leans forward. “And who protects us from those who enforce the law?" He gestures to my injuries. "Who protects you from them?"
I have no answer for that. The FBI has been my family, my purpose, my moral compass. If I can't trust it anymore, what's left?
“You still see me as a monster while giving those you work with, those who kidnapped a child, a pass.”
I shake my head. “No.”
He shrugs, but my sense is that he’s bothered by how I view him and his world.
“The reality is the law benefits those with money, power, and influence. Surely you see that.”
I understand what he’s trying to say even if it feels a little bit like he’s trying to justify his illegal activities. “You have money, power, and influence—”
“And I’m not in jail.”
I purse my lips at him and decide this conversation isn’t going anywhere. “I want to find the truth. We can work together to find it.”
“Right now you need breakfast and rest.” He rises from the bed.
I want to fight him on this, but he’s right. My head isn’t completely straight at the moment.
He stands. “Let me get you some toast and tea.”
As he turns to leave, I remember that the other night he accused me of taking Rocco. So why is he saving me?
“Do you really think I kidnapped Rocco?”
He inhales a deep breath. “A man kidnapped Rocco. What I hope is that you weren’t involved.”
“Hope?” It hurts that he doesn’t trust me even as I can understand why he doesn’t.
“At least I’m not weighing if it would be better to be with you or die.”
Touche, I think. “I wasn’t a part of it, but I think you’re right someone tried to cover their tracks.”
He slips his hands in his pockets, a casual move. But his expression is serious. “Is that how you ended up being attacked?”
“Maybe. My car was in for service. It never left the garage.”
His features darken and I can see he’s about to call me a liar. Before he can, I continue on. “The car that was at the Winter Festival wasn’t mine.”
“I saw the plate, Olivia. How do you explain that?”
“I don’t know. All I know is the GPS tracker has my car at the garage and another car at the Winter Festival at the time of Rocco’s kidnapping?”
“Whose car?” He asks, and I get the sense that he really does want me to be innocent of all this.
And yet, this is where I might lose him again. “An agent who was out on leave.”