“La Corona.” I watch him carefully.
He arches a brow.
“The inventory is from a Monti raid. The car is linked to Rocco Vitale Monti’s kidnapping. The missing report has to do with a Calabresi informant.”
“Interesting. It suggests someone from our unit specifically, unless you’ve asked anyone in other units.”
“I haven’t asked,” Thompson says.
“Me neither,” I add.
Blackwood’s dark gaze narrows on me. “How are you aware of all this, Ricci? I thought I told you to focus on Dominic Vitale?”
“He doesn’t live in a vacuum, sir. He’s connected to La Corona. As you know, cases overlap. You’ve even asked me to help in your case on occasion because of this, like when you asked me to reach out to Isabella Ferraza.”
He nods. “Right. I just don’t want you to get distracted from your assignment. Bringing Don Vitale down.”
“To justice, you mean.”
“Of course.” Blackwood studies me, and I do my best not to shift. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. Let me take a look and we’ll see if we need to bring in OPR,” he says of the Office of Professional Responsibility, the FBI’s version of internal affairs.
The rest of my day is normal from the outside looking in. I investigate my cases.
Make my reports.
But on the inside, I’m on edge.
Someone in the FBI is dirty and while it could be Blackwood, it could be anybody else. Thompson even.
Perhaps he brought me that inventory as a test to see how I’d respond or to find out what I might know.
As I drive home, I’m eager for a hot bath and a glass of wine to unwind.
I park in my space and make my way to the front of the building. I reach out to use my keyfob to enter the building when I’m slammed into the door from behind. My head whaps on the glass door, pain bursting out.
Training kicks in.
I twist, bringing my knee up hard while jabbing at vulnerable throat tissue.
A grunt tells me I've made contact, but the figure doesn't retreat.
Instead, a gloved hand clamps over my mouth while another pins my arm.
The lighting at the front of the building is too dim to reveal anything but a dark silhouette with his face obscured.
"Stop digging," a harsh whisper against my ear. I sort through everyone I know to figure out who the voice belongs to, but I don’t recognize it.
I bite down on the gloved hand, using the momentary surprise to break free. My elbow connects with a solid torso.
I pivot, reaching again for my weapon, but a crushing grip on my wrist stops me.
My attacker slams my hand against the door once, twice. Pain explodes through my fingers, and my gun clatters to the ground.
I launch myself forward, ramming my head into what I hope is their face.
The satisfying crunch of cartilage tells me I've broken a nose, but victory is fleeting.
Something hard, maybe a gun barrel, strikes the back of my skull. My knees buckle.
