“Look.” She thrusts the documents my way. “Isaac’s hefty Monday morning cash deposits during his first two years at college ceased the weekend Col’s son was admitted to the hospital. CJ’s medical report indicates he was extensively covered in bruises, and he sustained multiple broken bones and fractures. Isaac was a fighter in the underground fight ring, just like his fighter, Jacob, is now. I’d put money on it that Isaac and CJ fought that weekend—”
My eyes lift from CJ’s hospital records when Isabelle suddenly stops talking. I discover the reason for her gasping response when I spot Alex standing just inside the conference room door. Has he been here the entire time? Or did I miss something in my half-asleep state?
“How do you know Isaac was a fighter?” Alex asks Isabelle, stepping deeper into the room.
“Umm… I’m just assuming.” Her chest rises and falls in rhythm to mine as she stammers out additional details. “It doesn’t seem like an industry you’d get into unless you had some prior knowledge about it.”
I watch Alex with unscrupulous eyes when he says, “Your investigative skills are starting to flourish, Isabelle. I’m very pleased with your dedication of late.” He never gives a compliment, not even when it’s earned, so there’s something more going on here than he’s exposing. I guarantee it.
I take a mental note to remind Grayson of our agreement to keep things between us when Alex discloses, “We recently discovered Isaac was indeed a fighter in an underground fighting ring during his years at college. That fighting ring’s organizer was Col Petretti.”
“Ah, hold on,” I interrupt, more than happy to reveal to Alex that he’s working on half-facts instead of full truths. “CJ’s injuries weren’t from a fight. That weekend he was involved in a car accident with his sister, Ophelia.”
“What?” Isabelle blubbers out, her tone high.
I pass her the documents she handed me only minutes ago. “CJ and his younger sister, Ophelia, were involved in a fatal car accident six years ago.”
Her hands shake as she speed-reads the hospital record that reveals CJ’s injuries were extensive, but somewhat favorable compared to what happened to his sister. She didn’t survive the carnage.
“Was anyone else in the car with them?” When Isabelle’s eyes stray to mine, seeking an answer for her question in my eyes, I shake my head. “Did Ophelia survive the accident?”
She appears a little unstable on her feet when I once again shake my head. “Did you know Ophelia?” She’s a year or two older than Isabelle, but that doesn’t mean they didn’t meet. They were both mafia princesses, so perhaps they met in passing.
“No. It’s just incredibly sad, that’s all.” Isabelle scrubs her hand across her cheek on the exact area marked with red ink before nudging her head to the bathroom. “I’m going to go wash up.”
Alex waits for her to disappear from view before shifting on his feet to face me. “Continue working that angle. I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Isaac’s bank deposits ceased the exact week CJ was in an accident.” When I lift my chin, he pivots on his heels and stalks away. He’s halfway out the door before he mutters, “And the next time you update Grayson on matters pertaining to my case before me, I’ll expect to see your resignation on my desk shortly after.”
19
BRANDON
W ith Alex leaving the office not long after Isabelle, I grab my coat off the rack in the corner of the buzzing office before making my way outside. Usually, I’d slip an earpiece into my ear to keep Grayson updated on my whereabouts, but with my mistrust still paramount, I go without surveillance this time around.
Besides, an off-duty agent doesn’t need surveillance when he’s grabbing a bite to eat at a well-known Italian restaurant—even one named Petretti’s.
AN ABUNDANCE of garlic and pureed potatoes filter into my nose when I walk through the single glass door of Petretti’s. To someone outside of law enforcement, it appears to be a quintessential Italian family restaurant. It’s only the armed men in each corner of the space, watching instead of eating, that gives away it’s a shell for an Italian cartel. Many mafia operations have legitimate businesses. It makes it harder for the authorities to prove their wealth wasn’t amassed illegally and gives them outlets to launder money and move merchandize without raising suspicion.
“Good morning, sir. A table for one?” The restaurant hostess’s grin doubles when she drags her eyes down my body, seemingly oblivious to the fact I’ve been wearing the same trousers for two days now. I switched out my suit jacket for a more casual one and had a deodorant bath during my commute, but I’m reasonably sure not even the fragrant smelling air can hide the fact I’m in desperate need of a shower. Not that the hostess seems to mind. If we were in a cartoon, she’d have love hearts springing out of her eyes. “It’s quiet. I could join you for a meal if you’d like?”
Her overzealous friendliness takes a step back when I flash her my credentials. “Agent Brandon James, I’m here to speak to Col.”
“Col?” she queries, acting daft.
“Petretti.” I point to the proprietor sign above the door. “Owner of this restaurant.”
“Oh, Col.” She overemphasizes his name with a nasally pitch that has my eardrums cringing. “He’s not here.”
Too tired to deal with her shit, I fan my jacket to display the gun on my hip before asking, “Do you know where I can find him?”
She looks a cross between wanting to jump my bones and gouge out my eyes while answering, “You should probably ask him.” She jerks her head to the brute towering over me like I’m unaware he crept to my side of the room the instant Col’s name left my mouth.
“Is he Col’s keeper?”
“No,” the stranger answers on her behalf. “I’m his exterminator.”
When I turn around to face him, my throat works hard to swallow. He’s a huge son of a bitch. “Oh. Okay. Good.”
Since he won’t get me any closer to Col than the bimbo in front of me, I daze him with a three-hit combination to his carotid artery. It’s an old street fighting regime Mr. Gregg taught me when I didn’t want to explain cracked and bloody knuckles to my father. Ninety percent of the time, it knocks them out. The other ten percent stuns them long enough for me to escape.
