"Tell me about your work at the Port of Lake Charles."
I shifted slightly. This was the weakest part of my cover. "I worked logistics for Crescent City Hauling before they went under."
"Double books?"
"The kind that can land you in federal custody." I kept my voice steady. "I survived without handcuffs, which says something about my discretion."
"Did it make you nervous?"
Everyone gets nervous in this business unless they're a sociopath. Which I wasn't, despite being here to potentially kill a man.
"Of course. Ten years in prison isn't my idea of fun." I met his gaze. "But I'd never talk. I know how organizations like yours work. Snitching is fatal."
"Good." His smile was approving. Warm. "Tell me about the operations."
I gave him the condensed version—Crescent's Gulf Coast network, the owner's son who gambled with company money, the spectacular collapse. Just enough detail to sound authentic without boring him.
"When the Marshals showed up, it was over. The owner disappeared. Still on the FBI's most wanted list."
"The son?"
"Last I heard, running a hedge fund." I smiled. "Investing in cricket futures."
"Crickets?"
"Protein source. My trainer swears by them." I wrinkled my nose. "I tried one of those cricket protein bars once. Never again."
He laughed—genuine, surprised. "I'll pass on eating bugs."
"Wise choice."
Our eyes met. Held.
The air shifted. Charged.
He cleared his throat, looked back at the folder. "Your qualifications are solid. Your references check out."
"But?"
"But you're from New York."
My pulse kicked. "Is that a problem?"
"Depends." He set down the folder, leaned back. That assessing look again. "I've had some... complications with East Coast families recently."
Complications. He means my father's murder.
"I can't help where I grew up." I raised a brow. "But I can promise complete loyalty to whoever employs me."
"Can you?"
"Yes."
"Even if it conflicted with family obligations?"
The question was like a knife.
What was this? Did he suspect? Not everything, but maybe something?
