Page 7 of Mistletoe in the Mafia

I wonder what he has to say that he couldn’t say in front of everyone at the meeting. Still, I head to his office, donut in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. Joshua’s office is thelargest one on the floor, sparsely decorated with medals hanging on one end of the wall right before his desk.

The desk is overflowing with case files and documents. It’s a wonder he can find anything on there. Joshua’s standing by the large window overlooking the city, but he turns around when I enter, offering me a small smile.

“Maddie, have a seat,” he says, gesturing at the chair in front of his desk.

My eyebrows furrow. “I feel like a little kid about to be scolded for doing something wrong.”

“Did you do something wrong?”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of wrong,” I reply thoughtfully.

He chuckles, settling down in his chair, leaving me no choice but to sit as well.

“You didn’t do anything wrong. At least, not really. I just wanted to talk about you putting in another request to look into the mafia.”

“Oh,” I say dully. “Let me guess. It’s a no.”

This time, his smile is a little more forced. “You and I both know that the FBI stays out of mafia business. It’s a system that works and ensures things run properly in this city.”

“But think about the glory we’d get if we took them all down,” I say, smiling at the thought.

“I’d also think about the bloodbath that would occur in this city if we went after any of the mafia organizations,” Joshua says dryly.

I cluck my tongue at that. “That’s an incredibly unimaginative way of looking at things.”

“Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment,” I mutter, annoyed that I’m being shut down yet again. “They’re criminals, murderers, drugdealers. We shouldn’t be working with them, we should be wiping them out.”

Joshua arches a dark eyebrow. “Any reason why you feel so strongly about this?”

I force myself to calm down, to inhale a soft breath. Then I shake my head.

“I just don’t like that we have to walk on eggshells. We’re the good guys, they’re the bad guys. The bad guys don’t get to win.”

“We’re not superheroes, Madelyn. We’re the FBI,” Joshua states. “And they’re not winning. I’d say it’s more of a stalemate. The mafia roots run deep in this city. We stay out of it, understand?”

I nod despite the tightening in my chest. There goes my chance. It’s becoming increasingly clear that I’ll never get what I want if I continue along this path.

“Yeah, sure,” I say getting to my feet. I point my half eaten donut at him. “And just so you know, you’re definitely on Santa’s naughty list.”

“I think I’ll survive,” he says with a smile.

I’m feeling significantly less chipper by the time I leave his office and head into mine. My office is pretty small, but it’s my own little slice of home here in the building. The walls are a neutral gray, but I’ve managed to inject some warmth into the space with some personal touches.

My desk is slightly less chaotic than Joshua’s, but it’s a special brand of chaos. Multiple monitors sit on the desk, each one displaying an endless stream of data, case files, and surveillance footage. The screen closest to me has a live map of the city. On the far side of the desk is a small stack of case files and beside the stack is a reindeer-shaped coffee mug.

And of course, my absolute favorite thing in my office is the cactus sitting on the corner of the desk. The small green plantmight be one of my most prized possessions. I bought it when I first got this job and I’ve been taking care of it ever since.

I practically collapse into my chair and stare up at the ceiling, wondering if I should consider changing my plans. There’s a reason I became an intelligence analyst for the FBI, but five years in and it’s becoming increasingly clear that I might not be able to achieve my goals.

And that’s not acceptable.

The rest of the day passes in a blur. I remain locked in my office for most of it, going over the surveillance footage and trying to track where Torres could be hiding. But there are gaps in the footage. Someone’s carefully erased them. And they did a damn good job of it.

It’s pretty late when I finally give up, accepting that today also won’t be the day I finally nab the bastard. It’ll happen eventually. Just not today. I consider going home and straight to bed, but that doesn’t sound very fun. What I really need is a strong drink.

“What do you think, Mr. Bean? Home or a bar?” I ask my cactus.

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