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Aunt Nadia had once said I could convince someone to take their own life. I couldn’t even convince my boss to take a chance on me.
“You’re being dramatic.”
Wilks was probably right, but I was sick of these jobs.
I wanted the real assignments. The ones that didn’t require me to dress skimpy, flirt my pretty little face off, and bat my long lashes to get what the FBI needed.
On my last undercover assignment, I had come too close to sleeping with a small-time drug dealer, who only fell under FBI jurisdiction because he’d crossed state lines by buying his drugs along the border of Indiana and pushing them in Chicago, Illinois.
Right on the border of the Camerino and Romano syndicates.
If we hadn’t taken care of him, the Camerino or Romano families would have, and it wouldn’t have been pretty.
I swiped my hair away from my face, my movements jerky. “With good reason. A bartender at L’Oscurità?! You had me as a stripper—”
“—retired stripper—” Simmons interjected.
“—for my last gig. You promised that I’d get a better legend this time around.”
We called our covers legends. Sometimes, we called field agents in our division legends, too, but not many people had the clearance to know who is a legend and who is an analyst here.
And when we became our legends, the FBI techies erased all traces of our affiliation to the FBI. The only people who could vouch that I was, indeed, an FBI agent worked on this floor with me.
“This is a better gig. You’ll bartend regularly at L’Oscurità and keep your eyes and ears out for any intel that might be useful. Nothing trying. Nothing too dangerous. Just your eyes and ears.”
“I can handle dangerous just as well as Simmons.”
“And I believe you, but the fact of the matter is we nee—”
“Any other assignment, Wilks.” I lowered my voice. “Please.”
He placed both hands on his hips. No hand flexing. Just that somber expression I hated from him.
“Drop the legend, Ari.”
I reeled backward because he was right—even though I’d started my next legend, I was still trapped in my last legend. The confrontational Midwestern stripper, too stubborn for her own good. I’d thought I’d shed it. I really had.
Wilks turned to Simmons.
“Clear the room.” When Simmons left, he continued, “Have you seen Dr. Clemson?”
I stuttered out a ragged breath. “No.”
“You’re young. It’s always the young ones who have trouble pulling out of their legends.”
“You’re being condescending.”
“I’m not. It’s happened to me and countless others who came before and after me. If you don’t become your legend, you’re not doing your job well. Everyone has trouble shedding their legends after abandoning a cover. That’s what your therapy sessions are for.”
I fixed my eyes on a spot beside his head, doing everything I could to not look guilty. “I have an appointment scheduled.”
It didn’t help that I never received the type of assignments that would give me real experience.
“Don’t lie. It doesn’t work on me.” Wilks relaxed in his seat and shuffled some files out of the way. “I’ll put Simmons on another case. You won’t have to deal with him. Dr. Clemson will be your handler on this case under the guise of therapy sessions.”
He paused a beat. “This is the last time you show your face in the office until the assignment is done. Hell, you shouldn’t even be here now.”
He softened his voice, and I had to swallow the emotion bubbling in my throat. “Go see Dr. Clemson, and when you’re done, I’ll call you on one of your burners. Then we’ll talk.”
