My father's world, which it turns out I never truly knew.
And my professional world, which might be just as corrupt as Dom’s.
The worst part isn't even the betrayal or danger.
It's that when Dom looked at me with those intense eyes, telling me I was nothing without the FBI, part of me feared he was right. Without my work, who am I?
And the even more terrifying thought: what if the only person I can truly trust now is the very man I've been trying to put behind bars?
I run my fingers over the bruises on my arm, wincing slightly at the tenderness.
My mind drifts to Dominic, his touch, his protection, his certainty about who was behind my attack.
Despite everything, I miss him. The thought is unwelcome but undeniable.
Needing a change of scenery, I move to the window, peering through the blinds at the street below.
A dark sedan is parked across the street. Has it been there all day?
Dom's men, most likely.
I should be annoyed at the surveillance, but instead, I feel an odd comfort knowing they're watching.
I need to be smarter than this. More careful. Whatever game Blackwood is playing, I'm clearly a pawn he's willing to sacrifice.
The nausea hits me again, a sudden wave that sends me rushing to the bathroom. Nothing comes up, but that’s because I haven’t had anything to eat yet today.
It seems like by now my head should be healed enough not to be causing nausea. The fact that it isn’t is a concern.
I splash water on my face and study my reflection in the mirror. The bruising along my temple has faded to a sickly yellow-green, but the fatigue persists as well as nausea.
I have to consider that something is wrong. I find my phone, looking up a local clinic and making an appointment. I can walk there, so I don’t have to work about driving and passing out.
I clean up and head out into the cold December day. The lights and decorations remind me that it’s the Christmas season.
I used to love Christmas.
My father always made it so special.
Christmas Eve traditions that involved making cookies for Santa and leaving him a note.
The tree was always loaded with presents…presents that I now know were bought with dirty money.
I give my head a shake, still unable to think of my father as anything but the man I knew growing up.
I arrive at the clinic and after a short wait, I’m taken to an exam room. The nurse studies me and I imagine she thinks I’m the victim of domestic violence.
“I was mugged,” I say. “I hit my head and I've been experiencing fatigue and nausea... especially in the mornings."
The nurse arches a brow. “Any loss of consciousness during the attack?"
"Yes. Maybe twenty minutes?"
“What hospital did you go to?”
“Ah…I didn’t. A friend cared for me.”
She gives me a look like that wasn’t smart. “Let me take your vitals and the doctor will be in shortly.”
