2. Demi
DEMI
“Boss wants to see you.” Michelle grimaces as she passes my desk on the tenth floor of One Police Plaza, sits behind her own desk, and rolls her eyes as she answers the phone.
The boss is Detective Inspector Robert Goss, a round-faced man with graying ginger hair, wire-rimmed spectacles, and a predictable knack of spilling coffee on his shirt.
Every. Single. Day. His laughter is loud.
His yelling voice is louder. He’s a fair boss; treat him with respect, and he’ll do the same, but cross him, and you’ll be sorry.
“Did he say what it’s about?” I mouth, standing directly in front of Michelle so that she can lipread while she’s on the phone.
She shakes her head vigorously and gives me the shoulder.
Deep breath. I grab my jacket from the back of my seat and make my way along the grubby-walled corridor to his office.
Robert took a chance on me when I came back from the UK six months ago.
I knew him when I first joined the NYPD fresh out of the police academy; he’s one of those rare DIs who like to encourage and reward hard work and determination when they recognize it.
He was the only person who tried to straight-talk me out of working for the Sabatellis when Giovanni offered me a job. Because he cared.
Gio first approached me when I was a junior officer trying to claw my way up the slippery hierarchy slope within the NYPD.
He wanted me to pose as his girlfriend (now his wife) Megan, so that he could move her out of the city undetected by the ruthless assassin known as the Fish.
The Fish was Megan’s stepdad, and her little sister Amber’s biological father.
He was also the kind of man who enjoyed hurting people.
What started as a one-off job—leave Gio’s penthouse apartment wearing Megan’s clothes, board the Sabatelli private jet at a local airport, fly to Europe and back, and then cash in a paycheck—quickly morphed into a game of cat and mouse with deadly consequences.
The Fish caught up with Megan and Amber in Stowe, Vermont.
He left Megan in a remote mountainside cabin with a bunch of explosives strapped to her chest and kidnapped his own daughter, hiding her in a bunker underneath the Sabatelli family’s cabin in the same resort.
I was too invested to walk away. So, I stayed until Amber was found safe and well, and the Fish was dealt with the Sicilian mafia way.
By this point, I was in love with Gio’s younger brother Enzo.
I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t gotten accustomed to the lifestyle, the private cabin in an exclusive ski resort, the penthouse apartments, the personal security team.
I grew up in the Bronx. We didn’t have much when I was a kid, and although I never went without, I was brought up to take care of my stuff because it wasn’t disposable.
So, yeah, I didn’t grow up to be materialistic, but who wouldn’t be wowed, just a little, by champagne on tap and a private jet at your disposal whenever you fancied a shopping spree in Paris or Milan.
It wasn’t the reason why I accepted the job in Gio’s personal security team though. That honor was solely Enzo’s.
I’d never met anyone like him before.
Trying not to fall madly, deeply in love with him would’ve been as impossible as trying not to breathe air.
Megan and Gio’s story was one of love at first sight.
Straight out of the fairy tale where Prince Charming meets Cinderella, they dance, she leaves at midnight, and he finds her with a glass slipper.
Swap glass slipper for a brilliant IT team, and Lady Tremaine for a cold-hearted assassin known as the Fish, and you get their happy-ever-after.
I thought what Enzo and I had was the same.
True love.
Minus the bluebirds and friendly mice. Sure, he’s part of a mafia family, and I’m a cop, but love conquers all, isn’t that how the saying goes?
So, I allowed myself to get swept away by Enzo. I left the NYPD, accepted my new role as Megan and Amber’s personal bodyguard, and got treated like a princess by the man I love.
Loved.
Love.
Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned since I walked out of Enzo Sabatelli’s life, it’s that running away doesn’t heal a broken heart.
Neither does it alter the fact that he’s still a mafia underboss and a trained killer, while I’m still a law enforcement officer who took a formal oath to uphold the law.
I stand outside the DI’s door and knock.
I have half an idea what this might be about.
He’s heading up a new specialist unit focused solely on targeting trafficking operations based in and around NYC.
I applied for a role within his new team as soon as I heard about it.
Mainly because I want to work for him, but also because I need to keep challenging myself.
It’s the only way to keep Enzo out of my head: get up early, run, work my ass off all day, go to bed exhausted.
“Come in,” the DI’s voice reaches me through the closed door.
The temperature in his office is cool. The window is open to let in the air, and a gentle breeze ruffles the paperwork scattered across his desk while traffic fumes battle with the aroma of cold coffee forming a skin on the surface of his cup.
He looks up at me and smiles. “Sit down, Demi.”
I sit across the desk from him and spot the coffee stain on his shirt where his belly stretches the buttons a little. “You wanted to speak to me, sir?”
DI Goss leans back in his seat, appraising me without making it obvious. It’s a skill. One that he has perfected over the years. “How do you feel you’ve settled in since you came back?”
It isn’t a dig. I realize I’m fortunate to have been given a second chance, but he knows I work hard. It’s a genuine question, and he’s genuinely interested to hear the answer.
“Like I never went away.” I pause, then decide there’s no point pussyfooting around each other. “Is this about the new specialist unit?”
He chuckles. “I knew there was a reason why I like you.”
“With all due respect, sir, liking me won’t get me to where I want to be.”
He picks up a pen from his desk and clicks the lid absentmindedly. Maybe he hasn’t made up his mind yet, and this conversation is a test to determine whether he offers me a role within his new team.
“Where do you want to be?”
“Sitting right there in your seat.” I give him a small smile; my mouth is too dry for it to go anywhere. I don’t know why, but this feels like a turning point, a pivotal moment in my life, like my entire future hangs on his decision. “Not literally, of course,” I add.
“Of course. You have ambition, Demi. I like that about you.”
He doesn’t add that a woman having ambition in a male dominated environment is often mistaken for attitude and subsequently overlooked.
“Does this mean that you’ve considered my application?”
His seat propels him forward, jogging the cup of cooling coffee on the desktop, and splashing the papers closest to it. DI Robert Goss doesn’t seem to notice.
“How would you feel about doing some undercover work for my new team?”
New team. A thrill travels down my spine and settles in my gut.
I spent six months in the UK after I left Enzo.
I had some waitressing jobs, did some bar work, moved around from city to city staying in hostels that mostly accommodated students and backpackers.
No one asked questions. No one inspected my ID too closely.
It gave me space to breathe, to remember what had encouraged me to join the NYPD in the first place.
It sounds like a cliché thinking that it gave me a chance to find myself again. But that’s exactly what happened. When I stopped being Enzo’s girlfriend, Demi Payne raised her hand and got some attention again.
“I’d love it.” I try to contain my smile, but it’s right there, shining across the desk at my boss.
“You don’t know what it is yet.”
“Whatever it is, I’ll do it.”
I peer up at the street sign for the fifth time.
I don’t know this area well, it isn’t the kind of area I’d expect to find the exclusive club where I’ll be working, if I get the job, but this is the address DI Goss gave me. Only I can’t find the building I’m looking for.
I check the time on my cell phone. I got here early because he warned me not to be late, and now, after trawling the entire street back and forth searching for number 746, I have seven minutes to spare.
Seven minutes to introduce myself, mentally run through the new identity I’ve been given, and pray that my cheeks stop glowing and that my deodorant is doing its job.
I take my time, reading the house numbers out loud as I walk. “Four-hundred-sixty-four. Four-hundred-seventy-two.” I dart across the road between the traffic and start counting down from eleven hundred.
“What the actual fuck.” The seven hundreds should be at the far end of the street, but I’ve checked every building, and there is no 746. I couldn’t even locate it on my cell GPS.
I’m about to spring into last resort mode and call the DI, when a door opens on the opposite side of the street, and a young woman steps out.
She clutches her purse tightly to her shoulder as if she’s been robbed too many times to let go of it, and walks away, head down, her heels tip-tapping across the sidewalk.
But I don’t follow her progress.
I’ve spotted a sign in the foyer behind the door she exited through. It’s small enough to be missed from the outside, but the numbers clearly say 746.
I wait for a gap in the traffic, wishing everyone in the city would take a day off and walk instead, and sprint back across the road. The number on the outside of the building is 476. No wonder I couldn’t find it; it’s a play on numbers, like a secret code, crack the puzzle and you’re in.
I press the buzzer, checking my phone again. Three minutes to spare. DI Goss would be giving birth to kittens right now if he knew how close to the wire I was. My first job with his new unit and I’ve already almost blown it.
Once inside, I realize that 746 is above a small archway entrance with a reinforced door.