Yet our verbal sparring matches leave me more intellectually stimulated than any conversation I've had in months.
The way his mind works, calculating, three steps ahead, wrapped in charm and wit sharp enough to cut.
Most men I meet are intimidated by my position, my ambition. Not Dom. He matches me, challenges me.
God, just my luck. The most interesting man I know is a criminal I'm supposed to be building a case against.
For one ridiculous moment, I allow myself to imagine a weekend in the Hamptons. No badges, no crime.
Just two people who can't seem to stop circling each other. What would Dom be like away from his empire? Would that intensity remain? Would those dark eyes still study me like I'm a puzzle he's determined to solve? Would the promise of pleasure I see in his eyes be as good as I imagine it would be?
I shake my head sharply, banishing the thought. This dangerous fascination needs to end. Dominic Vitale belongs in handcuffs, not in my daydreams.
Starting the engine, I pull away from his building, trying to leave these conflicted feelings behind.
I head down to lower Manhattan, returning to FBI offices.
I drop into my chair, scanning my desk covered with an organized collection of case files, most prominently, those on La Corona and Dominic Vitale.
I set the folder containing today's search warrant paperwork on my desk, already knowing the report I'll have to file.
Nothing found. Again.
It’s not a great way to start my day back at work after missing a couple due to a debilitating sinus infection the last two days.
Thank goodness for antibiotics and nasal decongestants. I’m back on my feet, but not happy about having to search Dominic Vitale’s office on my return, partly because I don’t feel completely on my game and partly because the warrant was weak and Dominic knew it.
Agent Thompson passes by, coffee in hand. "Vitale clean as a whistle?"
"As expected." I force a smile.
The truth stings. I'd argued against this search warrant in our strategy meeting last week. "Dom's legitimate businesses are pristine," I'd said. "We're wasting resources on a public show that only alerts him to our focus."
But my supervisor, Victor Blackwood had insisted, and his word carries more weight than mine.
“You’ll get ‘em Ricci. You always do.” Thompson continues on to his desk.
I glance toward Blackwood’s office. He’s the bureau's crown jewel in organized crime operations. He has a reputation of being ruthless, but effective. Committed to ridding the city of every mobster. The man has built his career on bringing down crime families.
My phone rings. Blackwood's extension.
"Agent Ricci, my office."
I straighten my blazer and grab my notes with the search results. Blackwood's office is meticulously organized. Awardsand commendations line one wall, case maps on another. He doesn't look up when I enter, focused on something on his computer screen.
"Nothing actionable from Vitale's office?" he asks, finally meeting my gaze.
"Not a thing."
Blackwood leans back, fingers steepled. "Not surprising, but disappointing nonetheless." He stands, moving to the case board where La Corona's structure is mapped out. "The pressure is the point, Ricci. We keep pushing until someone makes a mistake."
"I'm not sure that strategy works with La Corona. Especially not with Vitale." I step closer to the board. "They haven’t lasted this long by making rash decisions. Vitale is calculated, patient."
"Everyone breaks eventually." Blackwood traces a line between the families on his board. "La Corona isn't special. They're criminals who've gotten comfortable. Comfort breeds carelessness."
Something in his tone bothers me, a certainty that feels misplaced given our lack of progress over the last few years.
"Perhaps we should consider a different approach with Vitale," I suggest. "The frontal assault isn't yielding results."
