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God help me. This man likes it rough. He lives for the pain. And I think he has every intention of teaching me to love it too.
"Don't touch me again, Diego," I warn him. "Next time, I'll shoot you in the freaking leg."
He doesn't say anything as he straightens his suit and pushes the button to open the elevator doors. We just stare at each other, locked in some silent battle of wills, neither willing to back down, neither willing to admit defeat.
"Don't make threats you aren't willing to follow through on, Athena," he says as the doors open. "Someday, it may cost you more than you're willing to lose."
"What does that mean?" I demand, following him off the elevator.
"It means you're lucky I'm a gentleman, or I'd be demonstrating how little you meant that threat," he says over his shoulder.
"I meant i…" I trail off as we emerge into his office, blinking. I knew he was a high-powered attorney. He works for the mafia, for God's sake. But holy cow. His office drips wealth, making no secret of the fact that it's intended to leave a lasting impression on those who step through the doors. Expensive art hangs from the walls, with leather-bound legal reference books scattered artfully around shelves. One entire wall is dominated by a smartboard and conference table. The other houses his desk, with views of the city and Lake Michigan glittering below.
"Your elevator leads directly to your office?"
"Perks of the jobs," he says, striding toward the door to the outer office. He pokes his head out, conversing quietly with a man seated at the desk there. I've been keeping an eye on the building for the last several days…long enough to know Diego's secretary is Ricci Morano, one of Rafe Valentino's lieutenants.
I take a minute to get my bearings. Not that it does me much good. I knew Diego was wealthy. His clients are some of the richest criminals in the world. But I don't think I understood exactly what that meant until just now. He isn't simply well-off. He's obscenely rich, judging by the looks of this place.
Why did he start passing intel to the FBI? I thought maybe it was a crisis of morality, but judging by this place, I'd say he has no problems with the things they do. He certainly doesn't seem to have any problems lining his pockets with their dirty money. So what does that leave?
Amalia. It leaves Amalia. Whatever happened, whatever led him to us, I think it involves her.
The door closes with a click, sending my heart into overdrive.
I watch him warily as he strides toward his desk, yanking his jacket off as he goes.
"I believe you had questions for me," he says, motioning for me to come to him. "You might as well ask so we can get this whole farce out of the way."
"What farce?" I cross toward him.
"You playing the dutiful little FBI agent. Me evading your questions. Both of us ignoring why you're really here." Another devilish smile dances at his lips. "Isn't that precisely how this is going to go, goddess?"
"I'm not playing at anything, Diego. I am an FBI agent."
"But not a dutiful one."
I stop behind the wingback leather chair situated across from his desk. "You may like to break the rules and the law, but not everyone has the same audacious lack of regard for the rule of law."
He tips his head to the side, regarding me in silence. "You think I have no regard for the rule of law?"
"Yes. Precisely."
"You're mistaken, Athena," he says quietly. "I hold the law in high regard. I just happen to be bound by oaths far older and far more unforgiving. The rule of law only works for those who work within it. For those who don't, it's an ineffective means of control. Ours are far more…persuasive."
"At least you're still willing to admit the mafia exists," I mutter, dropping heavily into the chair across from him. I set my bag on the floor at my feet, straightening. "Most of you refuse to even do that."
"Alexa, what's the mafia?" he says, humor dancing in his eyes.
I narrow mine at him, making him chuckle.
"I was an informant, Athena. We're past me pretending the mafia isn't real."
"Why did you decide to start sharing information?" I lean back, placing my hands in my lap as if we're having a polite conversation.
"It suited my purposes."
"And what were those purposes?"
"To share certain information."
"And cooperating no longer suits your purposes?"
"Astute observation, bella." He grins at me, not taking this seriously at all.
"Stop calling me that."
"Why?" His brows wing together. "And don't dare say because it isn't true, or you'll feel the sting of my hand against your gorgeous ass before you can scream for help."
"Because…because it's inappropriate," I manage to stutter, caught off-guard by his response yet again. He keeps doing that, saying things I don't expect, doing things I'm not prepared for him to do. There is no finding my footing with this man when he yanks the rug out from beneath me every time I think I'm finally on solid ground again.
