The most unsettling part isn't that I'm sleeping with an FBI agent. It's that I'm starting to care what she thinks of me. Starting to want her to see beyond the criminal file she's built.
I've never needed anyone's approval before.
Never wanted to explain myself or my choices.
Now I find myself wondering what Olivia sees when she looks at me. If she can separate the man from the monster she's been chasing for years.
She’s investigating Rocco's kidnapping and digging into Mrs. Ferraza's murder. Is she doing it because she believes in justice, or because she believes in me?
The distinction shouldn't matter, but it does.
My instincts have kept me alive, kept me out of prison, kept the Vitale family thriving. Those same instincts are screaming at me now: Don't trust her. Can't trust her.
It's not just that she's FBI. It's that her identity is built on justice and bringing men like me down. No matter how her body responds to mine, no matter what connection we feel in those quiet moments afterward, her badge comes first.
So why is she fucking me? I don't believe she's doing it to build a case. That's not who she is.
Olivia has too much integrity for a honey trap.
But that same integrity makes her dangerous.
She believes in justice, in right and wrong.
Everything is black and white, and I live in the gray…okay, so I’m often in the black.
But I don’t feel she sees the nuances of right and wrong. I imagine if she ever learns the truth about her father, it will not only destroy her, but it will change how she feels about him even though he was a decent guy and a devoted father.
He just also happened to fix a few things for my father.
Ultimately, she'll have to choose between her oath and whatever this is between us. And I know which way that choice will go.
"Fuck.” What have I let myself get caught up in? How did it even happen? And why do I still want to walk that tightrope? I want more. I want her to understand why I am who I am, why I do what I do.
But that path leads to prison. Or worse.
Let her go, Dom.
I shower, dress in a tailored suit, and force my mind back to business. The docks are waiting, and so are my responsibilities. My business doesn't run itself.
My phone buzzes with updates from my dock supervisor, Vinny. A shipment from Milan arriving today, legitimate designer goods through the front door, other merchandise through the back.
The elevator descends to the garage. I climb into my nondescript black sedan.
I like flashy cars as much as the next guy, but flashy stands out, and I get away with everything I do by not standing out.
I settle into my routine as I drive to the docks. This is what I know. What I can control.
Ships, cargo, men who follow orders.
Not complicated FBI agents with principles and soft skin and eyes that see too much.
Just business. Just power. Just La Corona.
The industrial scent of salt water and diesel fuel hits me as Franco pulls up to the docks.
Franco meets me when I exit the car. “Hey Boss.”
"Everything on schedule?"
