"Evidence of smuggling. Contraband. The usual."
"Of course. Thank you for trusting me with this, sir."
"You've earned it, Ricci." He smiles thinly. "Just be discreet. In and out. No one can know you were there."
"Understood."
As I stand to leave, nausea rolls through me.
Morning sickness has impeccable timing.
I swallow hard, refusing to show any weakness.
As I reach the door, Blackwood calls after me.
"Oh, and Ricci? Take care of yourself. These mafia cases... they have a way of becoming personal if you're not careful."
The warning in his voice sends a chill down my spine. Is he threatening me? Or does he know about me and Dom?
"I always maintain professional distance, sir," I lie, and close the door behind me.
I walk quickly to my desk. I grab my purse, check my weapon, and head for the elevator.
There’s a kernel of apprehension as I ride the elevator down.
But I want to talk to Mullins to hear his voice and find out if he attacked me.
And if not, find out what he’s learned about Dom’s business.
A strange discomfort slides through me as I realize that if Mullins has something incriminating, my first instinct is to call and warn Dom.
DOM
The warehouse should be empty. It's Saturday afternoon for one, and secondly, I have no inventory here.
Not that there isn’t security, but I’m less concerned about an empty warehouse than one filled with illegal goods, where my men are posted now.
I approach cautiously, hand hovering near my concealed weapon.
The winter air bites at my face, but it's not the cold making the hair on my neck stand up.
Something's off. I can’t explain what it is. Instinct maybe.
The perimeter appears untouched. No forced entry, no tire tracks that shouldn't be here.
I circle to the back entrance, moving silently just in case someone is lurking about. My breath clouds in front of me as I pause, listening for any sound from within.
Nothing.
I unlock the door using the code, opening it just enough to slip inside.
Darkness greets me, broken only by strips of afternoon sunlight filtering through high windows.
I roll my shoulders to keep them loose. I draw my gun, moving deeper into the warehouse.
There is no product but there is a table and a few chairs.
I freeze when I spot the body sprawled behind the table. Even in the dim light, I recognize him.Michael, the so-called desperate family man looking for work. The undercover FBI agent.
