“Then why?”
I shrug. “Investment. Like I said, I own a lot?—”
“Why this building?” she says on an exasperated breath.
I laugh. “For this.” I gesture between us indicating I like our little tete-a-tetes. “And, to find out why the obsession with putting me behind bars? Out of all the criminals in New York, you've dedicated years to me. If you like me?—”
Olivia squares her shoulders. "Don't flatter yourself, Vitale. You're just another case file."
"A case file you can't close. Four years is a long time to chase someone. Almost feels... personal."
"We have evidence of your money laundering operations through your restaurant chain." Her voice gains confidence as she shifts to work mode. "Tax evasion. Suspicious cash flows through your import business."
I smile, enjoying how her eyes flash when she's angry. "Allegations without proof."
"We'll find it eventually. People like you always slip up."
"People like me?" I stand, closing the distance between us, noting the gun she still holds to her side. "Successful businessmen who create jobs? Who revitalize neighborhoods? Donate to worthy causes?"
She doesn't back away. "Criminals who think they're above the law."
"Here's something to consider, Agent Ricci. Everyone, and I mean everyone, bends the law when it comes to money."
"That's not?—"
"Your boss does it. Your neighbors do it. Hell, I'd bet good money even you've taken a few liberties on your tax returns." I raise an eyebrow. "Ever write off that home office that's really just a desk in your bedroom?"
She rolls her eyes and moves away, storing her gun in a table drawer near her door.
A thrill runs through me that she’s decided to let me stay.
That we’re going to have this out.
"There's a significant difference between claiming an extra deduction and laundering millions through shell companies."
"Is there? Really? What is the price point in which committing tax fraud isn’t really fraud? A hundred bucks? A thousand?”
She purses her lips telling me she understands how ludicrous her argument is.
Once you’re over the line, the law is broken whether it’s by an inch or a mile. "Tell me something. You joined the FBI to pursue justice, right? To put the bad guys away?"
"That's the job," she answers cautiously.
I look her directly in the eyes. "Then why isn't anyone in jail for Rocco's kidnapping?"
Her head jerks slightly, indicating she wasn’t expecting the question. "That's not...the family didn't want to involve law enforcement officially. You know that."
"Bullshit." I keep my voice calm, but firm. "A six-year-old boy was taken. Traumatized. His mother still has nightmares. And you're telling me the FBI just... what? Decided it wasn't worth pursuing?"
She shifts uncomfortably. "The family handled it internally."
“I might buy that except someone did call you to inform you where he was. Who was that? Do you know?”
The guilt in her eyes tells me she doesn’t.
“You found him. Brought him to his mother and then tried to turn her against her family?—”
“I did no such thing.” Her eyes flash with indignation. “I wanted to protect her.”
