Chapter 1 #2
“You’re going to want to get down here, Beanie,” he said to someone on the phone. “And bring the boss.”
FBI agent Rhett Callahan made his way from the bar to Moretti’s parlor on the main floor.
Moretti had cancelled the party and had just dropped off the disappointed guests—not that he gave a shit.
He assumed everyone was just pissed because the party had ended before the free cocaine started flowing.
The last thing he’d wanted was to sit there and watch sleazy bastards crawl all over half-naked women and cheat on their wives.
Donatello Moretti was a sonofabitch, so when Rhett had been asked to leave San Diego and work undercover as his bodyguard, he’d been happy to take the job.
He rapped his knuckles on the mahogany wood.
“Come in.”
Rhett pressed the winged handle and the door glided open. He stepped into the room and placed his hands behind his back. “You wanted to see me, sir?”
The aging man stood at the window overlooking the quickly darkening sky, a glass of brandy in his hand. Moretti’s suit jacket hung over his desk chair, and his loosened tie dangled awkwardly over the bulging belly that he normally kept better hidden.
“Shut the door,” he said, lifting one finger off the glass.
Rhett did as asked and returned to position. He’d been undercover for only six weeks, but the bastard was sharp as a tack and liked his security details to be seen and not heard, and always on point.
Rhett held his tongue and kept his gaze on Moretti.
White hair streaked the senator’s beard, worked up his sideburns, and weaved through the ebony strands on his head.
A large onyx ring took up the middle finger of his right hand.
He wore a wedding band on his left hand.
A gold chain peeked out from under the collar of his shirt, another thing that was usually hidden from the public eye.
“Did you enjoy yourself up there?”
“I did, sir. It was a wonderful party.” If dryness tainted his voice, there wasn’t anything he could do about it.
“Good. We’ve got a problem.”
Rhett’s hand jerked over his wrist at the small of his back and unease tickled his throat. A problem wasn’t a problem as long as Moretti hadn’t discovered Rhett was an undercover FBI agent. Any other “problem” he’d handle fine and dandy. “I wondered why things ended early.”
“Yes. Well not to worry—my schedule is still the same. We’ll just wait out the storm that’s coming and be on our way when it clears. I believe the captain said we should set sail again after midnight.”
“Good to hear. What’s the problem?”
Moretti dropped the glass to the table. “You’re a good detail, you know that?”
The compliment made a muscle in Rhett’s jaw jump. He rolled his tongue over the roof of his mouth. “Thank you, sir.”
“You’ve got a solid head on your shoulders and handle sticky situations with clarity. I like having that on my team—I need that on my team. Especially right now.” The last sentence rang through the air.
Questions burned through Rhett’s mind. Jesus, was Moretti going to confide in him about the scandal?
A stripper, Raquel Stevens, had allegedly died at the hands of Donatello’s nephew, Andre Moretti, and the story had kicked up quite the sandstorm of drama in the tabloids.
Thanks to his uncle, Andre was out on bail pending trial.
Since it was a scandal the Morettis couldn’t afford, the payoffs had already started.
Once Rhett uncovered whose pockets Moretti had greased in hopes of getting his nephew acquitted, the papier-maché walls the senator had created would bust the fuck open, and everyone involved would land in prison.
“I appreciate that.”
“Good. I want you to take the lead on my security team. Beanie’s a shithead. He needs someone to keep him in line. It’ll come with perks, of course,” he said, waving his hand.
“I’m happy to accept, Mr. Moretti. What’s the problem you’d like taken care of?” If it was another murdered stripper, he’d be in over his head. A dead body would force him to call the feds immediately.
Moretti shoved his hands in his pockets. “Someone got on board to steal from me. Either information, cash . . . hell, it could be anything.” He swung his gaze to Rhett, and his stony gray eyes were as chilling as the storm building on the horizon. “I need you to find out why.”
“You want me to interrogate?” Shit. He had plenty of experience in that area, but if someone else was here to get dirt on Moretti, it could blow his case.
“Yeah. Beanie’s working on it now, but I’m not keen on his . . . methods. I don’t need another reason for the press to look at me. Got it?”
Rhett grunted. “Yes, sir.” Beanie, Moretti’s longtime bodyguard, made Rhett’s skin crawl.
He didn’t know a lot about the man, but Rhett’s debriefing before arriving on the case had included a background on Beanie Mathews.
Several charges of rape, aggravated assault, and possession of illegal drugs were reasons enough for Rhett to want to throat-punch him every time he had to look at his stupid face.
“Where’s Beanie holding him?”
Moretti jangled something in his pocket. “It’s a her. Top deck.”
Rhett’s heart rate slowed and his breath stalled in his throat. “Her?” He couldn’t, wouldn’t, hurt a fucking woman. Jesus Christ, what had he gotten into?
“Yeah, a woman. Find out who hired her.”