A silence settles, heavy, suffocating. Moretti doesn’t write anything down this time. She just watches me, her expression unreadable.
What I don’t say is louder than what I do.
I don’t tell her about Ghost’s den and how I broke in.
I don’t tell her about the storage shed, and what Sin and I did in there last night.
I don’t tell her about the evidence that could bury them all.
I don’t tell her about the weight of gold beneath my fingertips, and that those fingerprints are all over it.
And I sure as hell don’t tell her that Sin’s hands on my body felt like home.
When I finally run out of words, the quiet stretches long between us, filling the room like water in a sinking ship.
“This isallyou have?” Moretti’s voice is carefully controlled, but I hear the edge. “A biker club getting into a turf war with a rival gang? Victoria, I have six other cases on my desk. Thisneedsto be bigger than some pissing match between criminals.”
The words sting. “Ma’am—”
“Captain Rourke is breathing down my neck for results.” She stands abruptly, moving to the window, arms crossed. “Do youknowwhat it’s like to report to that man? He’s been on this taskforce’s ass since day one, demanding progress, demanding arrests, demanding something to justify the resources being poured into this operation.”
I’ve heard about Captain Victor Rourke.
Everyone has.
He’s a legend in the department, but he’s also tough. Hardass doesn’t begin to cover it. People literally change their routes through the building to avoid passing his office. He’s the kind of superior who chews up cops and spits out their careers.
“I was only recently assigned to head this task force,” Moretti continues, still staring out the window. “Rourke gave me a minimal briefing, handed me a stack of files, and told me to make it work. He wants results yesterday, but he hasn’t given me the tools nor the time. And what you’re bringing me…” She turns back, and the exhaustion on her face is painful to witness. “It’s not enough!”
Guilt claws up my throat. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry doesn’t solve this.” She moves back to the table, both palms flat on the surface as she leans toward me. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to go back. Deepen that trust you’re building. I want photographs. Hard evidence. Names,faces, connections to criminal activity. Right now, you’ve gotnothingthat will hold up in court.”
My chest tightens. “Photographs.”
“Yes! The photography angle, that’s your in, right?Use it.Get shots of whatever illegal operations they’re running. Document everything. Because right now, Detective, you’re giving me bar fights and pissing contests, and that’s not going to cut it with Rourke.”
The irony isn’t lost on me.
She wants photographs.
I have photographs of general day-to-day life in the club.
But that won’t cut it.
“Yes, ma’am,” I hear myself say. “I’ll get you what you need.”
“Good.” Moretti straightens, gathering her files with sharp, frustrated movements. “And Victoria? Be careful. I know you’re young. I know this is your first major undercover assignment. But getting emotionally involved with your subjects is a rookie mistake that ends careers.”
Her words land like physical blows.She knows.Maybe not the specifics, but she knows.
“I’m not—”
“Yes… you are.” Her eyes meet mine, and there’s something almost gentle in them now. “I can see it all over you. The way you talk about them. The way you say‘us’instead of‘them.’The way you’re sitting here, still wearing last night’s clothes, looking like you’ve been through hell and aren’t sure which side you’re fighting for anymore.”
My throat closes. “Ma’am—”
“I’m not saying this to judge you.” She moves around the table, and for a moment, she’s not my superior, she’s just a woman who understands. “I’m saying it because I’ve been where you are. I know what it’s like to live in the gray. To forget whichface you’re wearing. But you need to remember your oath. You need to rememberwhyyou’re doing this.”
