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The female agent glanced up from whatever she was reading on her phone. Our eyes collided.
I knew her—or at the very least, I recognized her.
The prostitute from The Dot.
My spine straightened.
She took it as an invitation.
The agent moved toward me. Her stride was as confident as her piercing stare. She was young; maybe Lucifer’s age. She climbed the perron, sizing me up with each step, and then stopped two feet in front of me. One of the foot soldiers protested. I raised my hand, telling him to stand down. I wasn’t sure what had possessed me to do such a thing, but it’d worked for Lucifer, and something told me I needed to hear what this Fed had to say.
The agent arched an eyebrow. “Interesting chain of command,” she greeted. She held up the badge that dangled from a chain around her neck. “Federal Agent Amelia Rossi—FBI. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Brennan.”
I shoved my anxiety aside and forced a grin. The kind I reserved for anyone who dared to call me a Brennan. “Mrs. Flynn—but you may call me Willa.”
“I see—congratulations.” Amelia’s ability to mask her emotions was on par with my husband’s.
My husband who was supposed to be at a sit-down with the Russians.
I swallowed the fear creeping its way up from the depths of my chest. “How can I help you, Agent Rossi?”
“I’m here to speak with your brother-in-law. Is he here?”
“Raphael’s unavailable.” It wasn’t a lie. I didn’t commit a felony.
She blinked. “You’re married to Lucifer.”
Her tone made me itchy. “Aye.”
She nodded, more to herself than to me. She’d come here looking for Lucifer, which meant she wasn’t here to deliver bad news. The type of news that a woman in my position should always be braced for.
I released the breath I’d been holding.
Amelia’s unfocused gaze trailed to the right side of the mansion, landing on nothing of significance. She seemed lost in thought. The longer we stood there in silence, the more I wondered if I should defend my marriage or explain—in case she needed it spelled out—that Lucifer was off-limits to her.
“How can I help you, Agent Rossi?” I repeated. I didn’t hide the growing annoyance in my voice.
Her eyes slid back to mine. “May I come inside to speak with you?”
“Do you have a warrant?”
A look of surprise lit up her pretty olive-toned face. There was a hint of a smile there too. “You’ve been trained well.”
I ignored her rib, delivering one of my own. “What can I say? I’m a sharp girl.”
Something moved behind her hazel eyes. Like a slip of a veil. It gave me a glimpse into the mind that had earned her the distinguished title of federal agent.
Unease trickled over my skin.
“Agreed,” she said, cocking her head. “Some might say”—her gaze narrowed—“the sharpest.”
A sliced Achilles ... a slit throat. A dead Russian in a Catholic Church.
My insides did a somersault.
Amelia searched my face. I felt the color drain away with every heartbeat. She knew. She had to. But how?
Was she about to read me my rights? Would the law tear Lucifer and me apart before we even had our chance to begin?
