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I sigh and pinch the bridge of my nose. The Grazie family’s youngest son went missing last week, and while all signs point to a runaway, we’ve been unable to track him and he’s yet to resurface. I make a note to follow up with his college professors later this afternoon.
Another call from another family of the victim of a murder scene I investigated Saturday night. They’re understandably hurt, angry, and eager for answers, and they have a laundry list of what they feel are leads for me to follow. What they don’t know yet is that the evidence in their son’s case clearly points to a textbook case of suicide, which I’ll confirm later today with a call to the coroner’s office.
I look through the open file folder but nothing really catches my attention. Mid-week, only office updates and protocol notices hit the inbox. Useless meetings, endless paperwork, rarely anything of importance. The good stuff is sent to my inbox or hand-delivered by one of my associates. I look over at my bag and bite my lip. My eyes cast down to my wrist, still faintly tinged pink from being restrained with the robe tie last night. I close my eyes against the sudden rush of emotion.
It felt so good. So damn good, just to let go for a little while. To let someone else make the decisions. To allow myself a night of unadulterated bliss and enjoyment before responsibilities and duty came pounding on my door. I finger the little mark on the underside of my wrist and close my eyes.
Rossi family.
Organized crime.
No wonder they all knew him at the hotel. I’m the only dumbass who didn’t.
I glance again at my door to confirm it’s locked, then reach for my bag. I slip it into a desk drawer so it isn’t obvious I’m looking through it, then slowly open it. I reach for his phone and wallet, slide them onto my lap, then close the drawer.
I swallow the lump in my throat when my fingers wrap around the soft leather of his wallet. A part of me wishes I hadn’t taken it. I wish he could think of me with… well, happy memories, and not whatever it is he thinks of me now.
I wonder what he’ll do when he discovers I stole from him. For the first time, I realize it was maybe not the best move. He’s mafia. A known mobster. And everyone knows you don’t steal from a mobster without painfully clear consequences.
I blow out a breath and look out the glass windows that surround my office. Other detectives and a few trainees walk down the hall to the conference room. One waves to me, and Julia walks by with an armload of printer paper. I take a stack of books and place them in front of me, then when I’m satisfied I have a solid wall to hide behind, I open the wallet.
Tears prick my eyes when I see his license… his picture. Actual tears. What the hell? I had a one-night stand—I mean, can you call a full night of blissful, casual sex a “one-night” stand, really? But there was no… no real connection.
Was there?
Then why do I feel so sad that I left so abruptly? Why does the thought of never seeing him again make me want to weep? Why does it make me want to sob knowing he represents the exact criminals it’s my life purpose to put behind bars? He means nothing to me.
But when I look at his license and see his picture, I can’t help but stare. Those piercing blue eyes aren’t even muted with a dull photo. A smile tugs at his lips that’s so charismatic, I find myself smiling back at his license photo.
Who does that?
Sigh.
I stare at his name again, and slowly shake my head.
Mario Rossi.
Oh, he’s a Mario alright, and the joke isn’t lost on me that he races cars. His mama sealed his fate when she named him Mario.
It suits him. So suave and handsome, so personable and flirtatious. He’s a charmer, and I know that, but I loved every minute with him.
A part of me can’t help but wonder if I’ve been had… and if I have, I can’t help but wish… that it happens again.
And it isn’t just the sex. The sex was amazing, but it was… so much more than that. The way his eyes focused on me in such a way that I felt like the only person in his entire world. The way he laughed readily at my stupid jokes and sparred verbally with me. The confident way he moved and walked, and the sultry tone of his voice. A girl could fall for a man like Mario Rossi, and so easily it’s scary.
But I have a job to do. A very serious job, that I won’t compromise on. Not for him, not for anyone. I draw in a breath.
