Page 9 of Ruthless Sinner
Maybe that was how it had to be sometimes, but I’d always promised myself that when I got promoted, I’d treat my agents differently. I didn’t like feeling… disposable.
Of course, the men in the mafia felt disposable too, I was sure. At least we were working to help people and serve the greater good. At least we weren’t promoting crime and violence. I was going to do good in the world and help bring justice. I had to remember that.
“How are you feeling?” was the first thing Johnson asked me.
“Good, sir,” I told him, because I knew that was what he wanted to hear. There was a department shrink that I could use, and I knew if I said I was struggling he’d suggest that I just go to them, but…
I also knew that would feel like I’d failed. That there would be judgment with Johnson and other agents.She couldn’t handle the assignment. Just one month undercover and she needed a shrink.
“We were interrupted, as I said in my report,” I said, idly pacing in the small apartment living room. “I’m hoping to get him alone again, maybe get him to talk about what the interruption entailed.”
“Good,” Johnson said in a brusque tone. “Sex is his weak point, Lancaster, use it.”
I rolled my eyes. “Of course, sir. That’s why I’m at Cozy Bunny and not one of the guys.”
There was a slight pause, and I wondered if I’d been a little too cheeky with my reply. Johnson never was much for humor.
“You’ve got him hooked,” he finally said, all business. “Do whatever it takes to keep him on the line. And remember to be careful. Marco might seem like the frivolous one of the three but he’s dangerous.”
I found myself wanting to protest that I thought Marco was far more intelligent than Johnson believed, but I kept it to myself. Johnson wouldn’t appreciate me disagreeing with him and might say I was overestimating my target. But I’d rather overestimate than be caught unprepared.
“He’s a soldier,” Johnson went on. “He’s the one closest to death every day, the one who deals regularly in violence. Keep yourself sharp.”
“Of course. I know things have changed with Vincent now that he’s engaged to Marla Preston and along with what happened to her brother, Dmitri, and him being murdered. I’ll be careful.”
“Good.” Johnson hung up.
And there was nothing for me to do but hang out for the rest of the day.
I had to make my life seem believable. It wouldn’t be surprising if there was someone watching me, especially if I managed to get really close to Marco and made myself his proper girlfriend, which was the ultimate hope. Vincent Russo and his father, Antonio Russo, both were paranoid men, good planners, and they hadn’t maintained all of the power that they’d inherited by just sitting on it.
Sure, some families like the Petrovs were so well ensconced in the mafia world, so far-reaching like a fat spider, that they could afford to have a few members who were idiots or lazy.
But the Russos, while powerful, were small. They weren’t quite as established. Three generations might seem like a lot when you consider how long people lived but a quick look a history showed how quickly a king’s lineage could fall.
It was obviously why Vincent was rushing to marry Miss Preston. Rumor had it that she’d been knocked up but I’d done plenty of studying on Vincent Russo in the hope that we could find a woman to turn in time to be his bride and he wasn’t the type of guy to knock a woman up. He was far too careful to make that kind of mistake.
But he needed an heir. And he needed more than one. So now… Marla.
I hoped the poor woman was up to the task.
The point was, if Vincent or his father saw that I was close with Marco, closer than women normally got to him, you can bet your ass they’d send some of their men to tail me, to make sure I was clean. I had to live an authentic life. I had to be not Kennedy Lancaster, but Kennedy Shapiro, and Kennedy Shapiro had to bereal.
So I got up, got out, and went shopping. I didn’t buy anything, although I did make friends with the owner of a local vintage shop, asking for advice on some good outfits for performing. I wasn’t a burlesque dancer, nothingthatfancy, but I couldn’t wear the same basic pasties forever.
I grabbed lunch at a local bodega, smiled, made friends, petted the cat. I bought some groceries and took them home, then inspected the apartment to see if there was anything I could spend a little bit of money on to spruce it up. I couldn’t just rely on fake family photos. I wanted it to have a homey touch.
By then it was time to take a shower, do my hair and makeup, and prepare for the evening ahead. Getting myself all dressed up for work was an ordeal. I’d quickly realized that makeup that looked great, and normal, in regular lighting was simply washed out by the colorful, intense lighting at the club. I had to wear much more exaggerated makeup like thick, curving eyeliner and fake lashes in order to actually look like I was wearing any kind of cosmetics at all.
I dressed normally to walk to work—the team had set me up in a place close by the club—and then changed into my stripper lingerie and high heels once I got there. I’d spent forever practicing my walk. The kind of heels that strippers wore were nothing I’d ever prepared for, even with my love of footwear.
There was in fact a burlesque show at Cozy Bunny, one that showed early in the evening. It was basically a dinner show, and it was expected that customers would order a meal to go with the entertainment. Men would often come to have an afternoon meeting when the club was setting up, then finish with the burlesque show and dinner to celebrate the hard work paying off before going home. I’d seen a few men bring their girlfriends or wives, since the show was tasteful and fun and sensual, rather than straight-up pole-dancing and stripping.
I certainly wasn’t qualified to be in the burlesque show. I didn’t have the experience, and Marco never came to it anyway. He always arrived much later, around eleven at night.
I couldn’t have my shift start only when he got there, or it would be suspicious, so I started a couple hours earlier, at nine when the burlesque show finally ended. Honestly? Strippingwasgood money. I was good at it—I’d taken dancing lessons as a kid and it had been far more fun than my piano lessons—and my supervisor had said nothing about having to hand over any money I made.
So… I kept it as a nice little nest egg, since the bureau wasn’t exactly known as a job you went into for the high pay.
