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Diego isn't a good man, but he isn't evil, either. He's that gray area in between…the shadow standing between light and true darkness. Without men like him, men like Tommaso Genovese win. If that makes him a monster…well, at least he's one that targets other monsters.
Whatever he wants from me, whatever game he's playing here…I have to believe he's playing it for a reason. Trusting him is dangerous, but not trusting him? Well, that seems pretty impossible right now, too.
I should have stayed in cybercrimes. Scammers were far less exhausting than this.
"I'll be there," I blurt. For better or worse, my decision is made.
Diego's expression softens. A ghost of a smile crosses his face. He seems…relieved. And then he blinks, and the arrogant, debonair lawyer is back in full force. "See you tonight, goddess," he murmurs, winking.
"Wait." I push away from the table to follow behind him. "I have to walk you out. You can't be wandering around the building alone."
"Ah. Of course, we wouldn't want that."
"Butera was here."
I look up from my computer as Dennis Respert barges into my office without knocking. The sweat beading on his forehead shines under the fluorescent lights. The man is always sweating. Even when he's sitting still, he's sweating. It's seriously off-putting.
I sit perfectly still, praying he doesn't know what went down in the interview room. If he ever finds out, I won't have to fail to be fired. I'll be out immediately. I'm sleeping with the enemy, a suspect. There are some rules that are inviolable. That's one of them. Not even agents deep undercover can break it without consequence.
I've broken it twice now.
"Why was he here?"
"I asked him to come in," I lie, saving my document.
"And he came?" Dennis's brows climb toward his receding hairline. "Just like that?"
"No, sir." If he thinks anything is that easy with Diego, he clearly doesn't know anything about him. The man was probably born being difficult. "It took a little convincing."
"Well? Did he give you anything?" he demands.
"I still need to check out a few things to see if the information he gave was legitimate, but I believe it is."
A week ago, I would have loved to rub in his face that Diego talked to me when no one else has been able to get a word out of him that didn't begin with an f-bomb and end with you. But it doesn't feel the same now. Perhaps because I don't know what game Diego is playing. What does he want from me badly enough that he's willing to spill his secrets?
Nothing good, I'm sure.
And the saddest thing about it? Even if I told Dennis about my deal with Diego, he wouldn't stop me from going. The man would throw me in front of a speeding bus if it made him look good.
"Well? What do you have, White?" he barks. "I don't have all day."
I carefully close my document, buying myself time before I turn to face him. "Tommaso Genovese killed his own men last year."
"Right," Dennis scoffs.
"I believe the intel is good, sir. It aligns with information I've gleaned from other sources."
"Why the fuck would he kill his own people, White?"
"That's the intel I need to confirm."
He eyes me sideways. "How'd you get him to talk?"
I take a deep breath, trying to keep calm at the way he emphasizes you, as if I'm the last person who should have been able to get Diego to talk.
I made a deal with the devil, sir.
"What do you mean?" I ask, playing dumb.
"He hasn't talked to anyone, but he's talking to you?" Dennis narrows his gray eyes at me. "What did you offer him?"
Just my soul, sir.
"Nothing," I lie. "I guess he just feels more comfortable with me."
"Right," Dennis snorts, leering at my chest. "I'm sure that's it."
I curl my hands into tight fists, battling the urge to throw my coffee mug at his sexist, chauvinistic head. I'm not sure what infuriates me more. The fact that he thinks he has a right to say it…or the fact that he's not entirely wrong.
Diego isn't talking because he trusts me. He isn't even talking because I'm good at my job. He's talking because he wants something from me. And to prove this man wrong, I'm going to give it to him.
I don't even regret it. That's how much I loathe this man. That's how much I want him to lose. I just have to keep from losing myself in the process.
"You're late," Diego growls, yanking open the door to his penthouse apartment at ten minutes after seven. His obsidian eyes are on fire as they rake over me like coals. He ditched his jacket and tie, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. "You were supposed to be here at seven."
"Yes, well, you're the one who lives in one of the busiest parts of Chicago. You have no one to blame but yourself if traffic held me up." I arch a brow, my hands planted on my hips. "Are you going to keep me out here complaining about it, or are you going to invite me in?"
