He stepped forward and offered me his hand. I stared at it in quiet resignation.
“Did you fuck the redhead out of your system?”
“Yeah,” I lied, taking his hand. He hoisted me up.
“Good. Good.” He patted my scarred cheek. “Where is she now?”
“Far away, if she’s smart,” I muttered around what felt like a bucket of blood in my mouth.
Through half-shut eyes, I saw him smiling down at me, his psychopathy on full display. “Well, we’re about to see how smart she is, aren’t we, Son?”
Chapter Twenty-One
Tierney
Supervisory Special Agent Thomas N.Rothwell leaned against an ancient microwave on a cheap Formica counter, ankles and arms crossed, the picture of stoic brutality.
He looked completely out of place yet perfectly at ease.
The man had jet-black hair cut neatly and dark-blue eyes framed by thick-rimmed Clark Kent glasses. He had a jawline Hollywood heartthrobs could only dream of and the body of a Greek god.
Rothwell was the kind of handsome to make women stupid and men feel threatened. I’d tried luring him into my bed over the years—he was one of the few men I knew Achilles wouldn’t be stupid enough to kill—but he appeared to be faithful to his one and only love: his job.
He acknowledged my presence by flicking his gaze my way and tucking his phone into a pocket, elevating a dark brow.
“Thomas N. Rothwell.” I tasted his name on my lips as I swaggered in his direction, tipping my ball cap like a cowboy. “That’s quite a mouthful. What does theNstand for?”
“None of your business.” He brushed stray lint off his immaculately pressed shirt. A white-collared Gieves & Hawkes, if I wasn’t mistaken, and I was never mistaken when it cameto luxury brands. He’d paired it with tailored Dior chinos and Jimmy Choo leather oxfords. No visible logo on any of these items. Old-money telltale.
“Tell me, Mr. Rothwell.” I dragged a teasing fingernail along the center of his muscular pecs. “Did the Federal Bureau of Investigation announce a budget overhaul I’ve missed? Last I checked, FBI agents—even senior ones like yourself—can’t afford a seventy-two-hundred-dollar getup for a day in the office.” My black nail traced noticeably sculpted abs, stopping at his thin Hermes belt, also logo-less. “Make that eighty-two hundred.” I offered him a flirty wink.
He flicked my hand off, not a muscle in his entire face twitching. “See my previous answer.”
“Refresh my memory?”
“None of your business.”
Oh, he was good.
But I was better. And I needed to put my point across before I left this godforsaken place.
“You know, I’ve done my research on you. God forbid I put trade secrets in the wrong hands and accidentally harm my own family.”
He stared at me with an eerily calm expression that sent a chill down my spine. He refused to humor me by asking what I found out. Just as well, as I wasn’t about to keep him guessing.
“A bachelor’s in computer science from MIT and a master’s in legal studies from Cornell put you on the fast track into the J. Edgar Hoover Building. You were tailor-made for the FBI. Almost like you sought them out. You’ve been with the bureau for twelve years, and the only way you’re going to leave is in a coffin.”
No response. Just the disinterested glare of a man who found me as appealing as yesterday’s microwaved dinner. I continued.
“You’re the best in your field, and putting Don Vello in prison will be your golden ticket to promotion. Senior Executive Service, right? You want this, bad. You work twenty-five hours a day. No wife. No girlfriend, either. Also—and please don’t take offense—very few friends, if any. You like your grandma, I’ll give you that. But other than Jean Rothwell, the only person I could find whose name you included in your will, is already dead.” I tapped my pouting lips, frowning. “Makes you wonder where all this motivation and hunger are coming from.”
He glared at me, unimpressed. “You done?”
“Almost,” I said cheerfully. “I amveryinterested in giving you the Ferrantes’ heads, but I have a few hang-ups.”
“Shoot.”
“You can have Vello, Achilles, and Luca. But you’re leaving Enzo, Lila, and Tiernan alone.” I drew a line in the sand. “In fact, I will need it in writing that none of this blows back on my brother’s family.”
