I turn to a fresh page in my notebook and jot down today's date, then bullet points of my conversation with Blackwood.
His fixation on La Corona.
His suggestion about using me as bait.
His dismissal of more strategic approaches.
I’ve got to cover my ass if something goes sideways.
There's a pattern forming that I can't quite define. Tactics that push ethical boundaries. Information compartmentalized in ways that prevent agents from seeing the full picture.
I've built my career on instinct and observation. Right now, both are screaming that something's wrong.
The question is: am I seeing genuine problems, or is my uncomfortable attraction to Dominic Vitale clouding my judgment?
Am I missing important information because I’m intrigued by him.
Am I becoming sympathetic to a criminal organization I should be focused on dismantling?
My father would be horrified to learn I was attracted to a suspect. He was a career NYPD cop killed on the job.
I highly suspect it was Aldo Vitale, Dom’s father, who killed him but of course could never prove it. It’s why I volunteered to work the case.
I suspect it’s why Blackwood was eager to give it to me.
Something like a personal vendetta is another “tool” he’d be willing to use to end La Corona. The ends justify the means with Blackwood. I suppose that’s my concern.
I’m not aware of anything he’s done that is outside the law, but I wouldn’t put it past him and that’s why I need to protect myself.
For two years, I’ve worked the case doggedly. I was more like an annoying gnat to Dominic. And then something changed.
When I first discovered Dominic stalking me last year, I was concerned. But I wasn’t going to let him know that, so when I found him breaking into my building, I confronted him.
I was prepared to arrest him.
Yet somehow I didn’t.
The electricity that snapped, crackled and popped between us took me by surprise. For a minute I thought he might kiss me. For that same minute, I thought I’d let him.
Ever since then, we’ve played this game. Dancing around each other. The tension building. We never go over the line, but how long can we engage in this dangerous game before something snaps?
I blow out a breath and push the past behind me. Dom Vitale isn’t my only case, so I pull out folders for a cartel case.
I drag myself home after eight, stopping for Thai takeout. My apartment feels too quiet, the silence amplifying my circling thoughts about Blackwood, La Corona, and Dominic Vitale.
I change into leggings and an oversized FBI Academy sweatshirt, pouring a generous glass of cabernet to swallow my antibiotic pill while mentally cataloging the inconsistencies in Blackwood's approach to La Corona.
The wine helps dull the edges of my frustration as I curl up on my couch, case notes spread across my coffee table.
The TV drones in the background, some mindless cooking competition providing white noise while I work.
A sharp knock at my door cuts through the quiet. I freeze. It's nearly ten. I'm not expecting anyone.
My hand moves instinctively to my service weapon on the side table. I approach silently, peer through the peephole, and my heart stutters.
Dominic Vitale stands in my hallway, hands in the pockets of a charcoal overcoat that probably costs more than my monthly rent.
His dark hair is slightly disheveled, as if he's been running his fingers through it.
