I’m supposed to send her an email to close out the file. You want me to hold off? Let you handle it?
Need to know ASAP.
JC
No fucking way. Enzo is mob. His death doesn’t remove the blade hanging over Amy’s head. I shoot off a quick reply, thanking John and taking responsibility for the notification. Sending me an email about the witness isn’t completely kosher, but like I give a shit. I minimize my email and open File Explorer.
Deep in my computer files hides the single most important one—encrypted and password protected. One I shouldn’t have. One I’ve been trying to ignore, to let some space cool my attraction. The folder opens, and I click on her picture. Her face fills my screen—soft brown hair curls over her shoulders. Sweet brown eyes meet mine. Lips posed in a delicate pout, begging me to kiss them. Well, not really. Not at all. That’s just the story I’ve told myself over the past few years. No matter how long I avoid contact, I’ll never get over her.
I was still in victims’ assistance when I took her case. She had racketeering evidence against a mobster who’d been on the radar for a long time. I should have recused myself from her investigation since we had prior contact before she called in the report. But we agreed, and neither of us said a thing.
So she’s mine.
If the agency knew how true that was, I’d be fired on the spot. I’ve been living on borrowed time, holding this secret, counting on the trial finishing before my security clearance came up for renewal. My one tainted action in an exemplary record. I push back my chair, ignoring the smack of it hitting the window, and march to my boss’s office.
“Tyler, just who I need to see.” Special Agent in Charge McCarty gestures to one of the chairs across from his desk.
I drop into it and will my leg to stop bouncing. I can’t reveal how agitated I am.
“Just hung up with the attorney general’s office. One of our perps died last night in prison. Enzo Brambilla Sr. Natural causes. The case has been dropped. No perp, no trial. Think that was the last one of your field cases.”
I keep my face blank as if I don’t already know, as if I’m not dying to get to my girl to protect her. “There’s the matter of the witness. My victim.”
“Not anymore. The case is closed. Neither of you will have to testify. Marshals will take care of whatever needs to be done on the witness end.”
The words punch me in the gut. No protection. “The guy’s a mob boss. Just because Senior’s dead doesn’t mean the family won’t still go after her.”
“Budgets.” McCarty shrugs. “Besides, the Brambilla family has been moving toward more and more legal enterprises.”
Bullshit. I swallow the scream and keep my face neutral. “Can I request a formal review?”
“You can. But these days, the money’s all tied up in preventing domestic terrorism. A simple racketeering case doesn’t have the same level of visibility. These aren’t the J. Edgar days.”
“Right. Anything else?” I have to get out of here before I say or do something stupid.
“Close out the file.”
I clamp my jaw shut and leave. Back in my office, I spin in my chair and stare out the large rectangular window at the perfectly manicured lawn and the black metal fence beyond.
Close the file?
How am I supposed to turn my back on the woman I’ve protected for years?
If I push the review, it’ll burn a bridge with SAC McCarty. And he’s right—the committee will most likely turn me down. But I have to do something. After submitting a vacation request, I stare at my email inbox, desperate for an answer.
* * *
“He fucking denied my vacation.”I smack the edge of the bar and stare at Master Stone. The gray taking over his dark hair and the sun-aged skin puts him at maybe a decade older than me. It’s hard to tell because he keeps himself at the military-level fitness of a thirty-year-old. He’s a mentor to me at the club, to all the Dominants, and has talked me down from a bad decision more than once.
“How long have you been in?” His voice is gravel under the wheels of a Harley.
“The FBI?”
“Long enough to retire?”
The question smacks me between the eyes like a baseball bat. Retire? I’ve never thought about it. Never wanted to work somewhere else. I’m eligible for my pension. And I’ve had additional deductions taken from my paycheck to lower my taxes, but I don’t even track the accumulated balance, especially after the last couple of market crashes. I leave that to my accountant. But there are other assets too, mostly the result of having had a financial planner for a mother. I assumed I would die on the job well before I ever got to retirement.
Stone nudges me with his shoulder. “Doesn’t mean you have to stop working. But you could deal with your woman, then figure out what to do next.”
