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My ears remained alert, and I heard a voice speak behind the closed office door.
“Y-you’ve got it all wrong.”
From the hesitancy, I suspected this was the man I hadn’t recognized. The John Doe.
“Are you calling us liars?” This voice was firmer.
It wasn’t Bastian’s.
I’d heard a wire tape of Vince’s voice, and this didn’t sound like him. Gio’s voice, maybe?
“N-no. O-of course n-not.”
My breath hitched.
Just listening to John Doe’s voice gave me anxiety. I didn’t have my service weapon. It remained hidden under my apartment sink in a fake detergent bottle with a false bottom.
For this legend, the bureau had only approved me to carry it if I suspected I was in imminent danger—beyond the hostile working environment.
And for the first time since I started the legend, I wished I had it with me.
I didn’t think they would kill him.
Not here, where they had so much to lose.
But maybe they’d leave, and I would have to follow them without the safety of my Glock 22. The thought made my skin crawl, and I switched from fake texting to fake talking on the phone to keep my eyes alert.
“Quit being a little bitch.” This came from Bastian, his voice so deep, gruff, and distinct, I would recognize it anywhere. “You haven’t paid us. Either you lost the money or you skimmed it from us. Which is it, Bianchi?”
I made a mental note to pass along the name to Jenn during our next session, along with whatever I could grasp from this conversation.
Bianchi’s voice was a soft quiver. “I’ll get it t-to you. I promise.”
A smoother voice spoke this time. Firm. Self-contained. Deadly.
Vince.
“You have a daughter, don’t you?”
Bastian feigned a laugh before chiming in. “What was her name? Mara? Maria?”
“M-marta.” I strained to hear Bianchi’s barely audible voice.
I felt for the guy.
I could barely handle one Romano, and he had three in front of him—taunting him. I paced as quietly as I could, pretending to speak into the phone with animated hand gestures.
In reality, I wanted to be closer to their voices. I could barely hear them as it was.
Another laugh tore free from Bastian’s throat. This one so dark, it sent a chill down my body traveling through each limb.
“Marta.” He tsked. “Right. That’s what it was.”
“Didn’t you fuck her, son?” Giovani Romano toyed with his words, deliberate in their delivery. “How was she?”
I winced at his crass words, empathy for Bianchi gripping my heart. I was trained not to feel empathy while undercover.
And even though I knew Bianchi had to have known what he had gotten himself into with the Romano family, I couldn’t help but sympathize.
