Page 1 of Consumed By the Mafia

one

Deadline

Well, fuck me.Abigail Fitzgerald pulled in a long breath through her nose before calmly pushing out the words her supervisor wanted to hear. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

“Good. Keep in touch.” The line went dead before anything more could be said.

Abigail blew out the rest of her sigh and dropped the phone onto her desk. “Dammit.” She slumped back in her chair, the other woman’s warning running through her mind. Of course she had known time was passing and of course she could have guessed her superiors were growing restless.They’re the ones who told me this wouldn’t be an easy job.Still, apparently,they had expected her to find actionable information within a year of focused work.

She’d been in Newark, New Jersey for approximately ten months. She had learned information that had kept her up at night, but nearly all of it was unproveable. And that was the problem.

Abigail drummed her fingers on the desktop as her mind raced. She had until the end of September—just over two months—to magically acquire sufficient information to at least justify federal warrants and deeper, sweeping investigations. If she failed in that, she would be removed from the case and likely shipped elsewhere for reassignment. It would be the first mission she’d failed since joining the FBI.

“No damn way.” She smacked her hand against the desk and shoved to her feet. There had to be something she could do to reinvigorate the case. Her gaze landed on her phone, the screen darkened and displaying only the time and date in neutral white typeface.

It was late, on a Friday, more than halfway through July.

Abigail played out her standard options before giving her head a shake. If her standard options were going to pan out, she would have more than nightmares and one willing witness to show for a ten-month investigation. She needed to do something irregular. Which was when she remembered the crazy idea she’d had, and dismissed, not all too long ago.

She glanced down at herself and frowned. She was going to need to shower and change, and she was going to have to dig something out of her closet that was a little more suited tofun-and-flirty.

Abigail hurried through her apartment, found a cocktail dress that wasn’t as black-tie formal, and laid it out before rushing into the shower. She scrubbed quickly, taking as little time as possible, and forty minutes later she was staring at herself in the mirror fully dressed and makeup freshly applied.

She squinted at herself. “I’ve gone crazy.” She didn’t know for certain she would even find her target, let alone a reasonable opportunity to insert herself into his evening. The one thing she did know was that if she had run this plan by her supervisor for approval, it would take a good two weeks of organizing and meticulous people-placing. And that was precisely why it would also fail. If she was going to succeed, she had to do it on her own.

That was not a perfect solution. She couldn’t safely slip a wire onto herself, which meant the only recording device she had the option of using was her phone. Not to mention she was entirely by herself. That was the much larger danger.

Abigail squared her shoulders and narrowed her eyes at her reflection. “No risk, no reward, right?”Great. I’m talking to myself.It was late enough. She needed to get going. All she could do was hope that she was at least right in knowing which bar to go to.

She slipped her phone, her civilian ID, and a wad of cash into a clutch. Her government ID went into a nearly invisible pocket against one wall of the clutch, where it wouldn’t be found unless someone knew to be looking for it. In lieu of then putting her entire clutch into a larger purse and raising questions, she tucked her gun into the calf of her right boot.A little unoriginal, but effective. She was going out without backup, she wasn’t going out without her gun.

Once she was ready, and her phone pinged with the arrival of her rideshare, Abigail snatched up her keys and made her exit. The clock was ticking. She was not going to fail this mission. Her boss may not yet be sold on the idea that the De Salvos were in fact the power behind New Jersey’s organized crime, but he hadn’t sat across the table from a grown man trembling in fear at their mere name. She’d listened to the stories, even when she hadn’t wanted to. She’d watched a man the same age as her go pale and dry heave into a bucket midway through a story he’d chosen to tell. She’d watched that same man beg, not for immunity, but for protection when the time came.

Months later, she was still haunted by the tales of torture and violence she’d heard from her informant.

Abigail pushed the discomforting thoughts away from her conscious mind as the bar she wanted came into sight. The parking lot was more crowded than she had expected and she was glad she’d opted not to drive herself. She had the driver drop her in front of the entrance, handed over more than enough cash, and let herself out of the car.

She’d driven by the bar in the light of day a couple weeks prior, but that really hadn’t done it justice. It looked much seedier in darkness than she had expected. Still, she took her place in the thankfully short line and slipped out her ID as she approached the bouncer. It was only a handful of minutes before she was making her way into the bustling bar.

Abigail swept her gaze around the space, her clutch held tightly in one hand. There were people grinding and spinningon the dance floor as alt rock pumped from the building’s out-of-sight speakers. Most of the tables were occupied by groups of three or more, sharing drinks and laughs and seeming not to care about anything beyond their table. Two of the three pool tables were in use and Abigail felt her face contort with a wince as she watched a large man in biker leather reach around a young, curvy female in a clichéd scene.

She dragged in a breath and aimed herself for the bar. More than half the stools were open, which surprised her, but that made it easy to take one without being obviously choosy. If someone else wanted to make a scene, she would evaluate the situation as it arose. Until then, she was determined to embrace her act of simply being an overworked single woman looking to unwind just a little bit. A single woman with a particular type.

“What’ll it be, darlin’?” the bartender asked as he turned to lean an elbow toward her. He was at least fifteen years her senior, with graying hair and a full, dark gray beard to match. He had an approachable lift to his lips and patient eyes, like a man who’d spent years listening to people talk.

Abigail offered him a tired smile. “Whiskey, neat.”

One of his brows kicked up. “Wouldn’t o’ pegged you for a whiskey girl.”

She crossed her ankles carefully, settling in on her stool. “I need something to wash down the week.”

The bartender chuckled and tapped his fingers on the bar top as he straightened. “Comin’ right up, then.”

Abigail waited patiently for her drink before adjusting herself to people watch from her perch. She sipped at her drink,debating the wisdom of not also ordering something to eat, and decided she could handle at least one more before she needed a chaser.They use surprisingly good whiskey in this place.It wasn’t necessarily her favorite drink, but she didn’t mind it, either. And maybe she had wanted something to ease her nerves—or soothe the sting in her pride after Mercer’s phone call.

She watched people dance for a bit, watched the girl at the pool table rebuff the biker when he went in for a kiss, and was draining her glass when she spotted him. The man she’d hauled herself out in hopes of finding, sitting in a booth along the far wall with two other men. For a moment she almost wasn’t sure, until she caught sight of his outer arm and the tattoo stretching down to his wrist.That’s definitely him.

Ryoma Sato.

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