Page 30 of Ruthless Sinner
Kennedy
Marco had invited me to his family’s wedding.
Holy shit.
This was big. This wasgoodbig. This meant he trusted me, and that he liked me enough to want to show me to his family. I told Johnson right away the next day after Marco had gone to get his x-ray done.
He agreed with me that this was good news, and also that I shouldn’t wear a wire. There was no guarantee that business would be talked about and the risk was just too great. But if I could keep my eyes and ears open, the information I gathered at this shindig could help other undercover officers and tactical teams in planning their next move not just on the Russo family but on any other families who attended the wedding.
More than that—it was proof that Marco trusted me. It meant I could ask him questions without him wondering why. I could finally start to gather some real information.
Like this package business. What was it about? Why had it nearly gotten him killed, and why wasn’t Vincent telling him about its significance? I could still see the blood on my hands when I closed my eyes—Marco’s blood. It had scared me, even if I’d struggled not to show it. I knew that Marco was tough, that he would be fine, but I suddenly remembered all over again how fragile our bodies were. How just one small accident, hitting your head wrong, tripping, a knife two inches to the right, could suddenly end your life.
Thankfully he’d bought my story about my dad. My dadwasin construction, and I had learned how to fix up homes and stuff from him, along with some basic first aid knowledge. But stitching up a wound? That level of battlefield medicine had come from my FBI training.
Not that I’d expected to use it on anyone other than myself in this mission.
I’d been unable to resist pressing a kiss to the stitches. I didn’t know why. It had just felt… right. Like I had to give it a benediction somehow, some kind of good luck charm.
That part I didn’t tell Johnson. Not just the wound but the package deal, too. I reasoned with myself that it would be foolish to tell him when I didn’t even know what was going on myself with the situation. Moving packages around? That was weird and definitely meant something, but until I knew what that something was, why tell my superior about it?
Ah, yes, sir, they’re doing something weird, but we don’t know why or what it means! I’ll be sure to keep you posted.
No, it would be best, or so I told myself, to wait until I had something substantial.
Of course, there was also the voice in the back of my head that told me the reason I hadn’t told Johnson wasn’t about professionalism. It was because I wanted to protect Marco.
But that was a ridiculous thought, so I ignored it.
Instead I busied myself making the bed, heading back to my apartment to keep everything in order, and just trying not to think about Marco talking to his brother, and that information, and what sort of choices I would have to make and what kind of game I’d have to play now that he had brought me so intimately into his life.
I’d been extremely successful in faking reluctance to go to the wedding. As I’d hoped, it just made him insist, and convinced him I was a person uninterested in his wealth or power. I’d have to keep playing that game if I wanted to succeed in getting information out of him the way that I had last night.
Oh, and I needed to buy a dress for the wedding.
Marco would probably offer to pay for me to get something, but I had enough money from stripping that I could certainly pay for a nice dress for myself. Nothing too extravagant. This was going to be a summer wedding, so I went out and did a little shopping.
It was odd, when the saleswomen would ask me what I was looking for. “I’m going to meet my boyfriend’s family,” I would tell them. “It’s for his brother’s wedding.”
It sounded so normal. The saleswomen would always coo and give me advice on how to impress the parents, and I didn’t know how to handle this… strange normalcy. After all, their usual advice wasn’t going to help when the family of your boyfriend were in the mafia. And it would help even less if you were also an FBI agent undercover and faking everything to get information.
WasI faking everything? I no longer knew.
After shopping at a few different places, I found the dress I wanted, a summery, bright yellow number that had short cap sleeves and a skirt that stopped right at my knees. Fun and cute but not too revealing. I was sure that Marco wouldn’t go out of his way to tell anyone my profession but I wanted to avoid looking like a stripper in general anyway.
Not that his family wouldn’t assume that’s what I was. Johnson had said in my original file briefing that Marco had a habit of bringing strippers and other women that his father deemed ‘unsuitable’ to family gatherings just to piss the old man off.
Was that what I was? But no, Marco hadn’t asked it like he wanted to use me to annoy his family. He said it like he wanted to really show me off. Like he was proud of me and our relationship.
Warmth rose up in me at the thought and I tamped it down, purchasing the dress. I’d show this to Marco, get his approval, and then I’d go home and get ready for work. Simple as that. No warm fuzzy feelings to confuse me and ruin my day.
I got to his apartment and was shown to the private elevator by the doorman, but once I got up there, I could hear arguing.
Uh-oh.
The elevator dinged open, causing a pause in the conversation. Since the elevator opened right onto the penthouse apartment, there was no way for either man to avoid knowing I was there. Just turning around and heading back down while pretending I hadn’t heard anything was not an option.
Marco stood in the middle of the room, wearing a t-shirt and jeans, barefoot. Across from him, in an impeccably tailored suit, was another man who I recognized from photos to be none other than Vincent Russo, the oldest brother.
