I give an exaggerated sigh of relief. “Thank God. I’d hate to think you spread your legs to try and put me in jail.”
Her eyes narrow and I’m sure she’d like to slap me. Maybe even shoot me.
“I’m sorry,” I say before she can do anything. “I’m just trying to help.”
“I’m going to have to recuse myself from your case.”
I’m strangely disappointed by that. “Good, then you can focus on something important like who kidnapped Rocco. Or maybe who killed Leo’s wife. Or who killed Gio.”
"Those aren't my cases."
“They’re not anyone’s cases!” I slam my hand against the table, making her jump. "A woman was executed on the street in broad daylight. A child was taken and traumatized. Where's your righteous justice for them?"
"That's not fair?—"
"No, what's not fair is how you decide who deserves your precious justice and who doesn’t.” I step into her space, close enough to feel her breath. "You want to talk about ethics? What about the ethics of selective justice?"
"I can't just?—"
"Can't or won't?" I challenge. "You're so concerned about breaking rules by fucking me, but not concerned that your own agency might be corrupt? That someone you work with might be involved in something far worse than whatever you think I'm doing?"
I've pushed too far, too fast, but I can't stop now. "What kind of justice are you really serving, Olivia?"
She stares at me, conflict written across her face. Even so, there’s also defiance.
“You know what, you’re right. This was a mistake. Don’t worry, Agent Ricci, I won’t make it again.” I grab my coat and head out of her apartment.
I hate how pissed and even worse, hurt I feel.
What the fuck is that about?
She’s just an interesting woman.
Why should I be hurt that I don’t come even close to comparing to her job? That Rocco doesn’t warrant justice?
I pull my coat tighter against the December chill as I leave Olivia's building. I cross the street to my car, peeling out wondering if she’s watching me leave?
Probably not.
She’s probably in the shower scrubbing my cum from her body and planning my arrest.
Back at my house, I head straight for my office. I’m too wound up to sleep. I pour three fingers of scotch and sink into my chair.
What happens now? Olivia could double down on her investigation, use this night to fuel her determination to bring me down.
Or she might pull back, request reassignment to avoid the conflict. Either scenario creates complications I don't need.
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass. If she backs off, Blackwood might assign someone else, someone I don't understand, can't read.
Someone without Olivia's strange sense of honor.
If she pushes harder, her judgment might be compromised, making her unpredictable.
I drain my glass, the burn matching the fire she lit inside me. Whatever comes next, I need to be ready.
I need to make sure the surveillance on her continues. I'll move some of my more sensitive operations further underground. I'll prepare for every scenario.
But even as I make these mental notes, I know the truth.
