Page 65 of Tide of Treason
The front door exploded open, wood splintering, the force of it rattling the walls like a SWAT team had decided today was the day, and in strode two of the last bastards Iwanted to see right now.
“If I hadn’t already clocked you as a twisted son of a bitch who thrives on misery,” Francesco said, rolling immaculate cuffs, “I’d be rearranging that smug mug of yours into something far less marketable.”
I jerked my chin toward the espresso machine. “Be a dear. I’ve got a three-hour circus with the Bureau to endure.”
“Make it yourself, motherfucker.”
I fixed him with a dispassionate gaze. I’d been off my meds for a week now, but fuck it, some things required a little bit of insanity to pull off. And becoming the director of the FBI while actively running the dirtiest Cartel in the western hemisphere was the kind of crazy shit you could only get away with when you were manic.
The official term for it was “covert directorship.” What it really meant was that I could operate without a public face, without ever having to shake hands with the press or pretend to give a fuck about the Constitution in front of Congress. My name wasn’t on any plaques. No framed photos in the hallway. To the world, the FBI still had no formal leader. Only a network of interim heads scrambling to explain why there was a locked office on the highest floor with no listed occupant.
The Italians were laughing all the way to the bank, because if Viviana Sforza’s husband just happened to soon be the most powerful lawman in the country, well . . . what a beautiful coincidence. A beautiful, profitable coincidence. Their laughter sounded a lot like dollar signs and untraceable offshore accounts.
Elio caught his brother’s eye. Something passed between them. Then he swung at me, a straight shot to the jaw. Felt like meeting the wrong end of a jackhammer. Pain blossomed a second later, along with me tonguing the cut on the inside of my cheek, tasting blood, and spitting red onto the fancy marble floor.
“Not bad.” I wiped my mouth with the back of my hand, eyes narrowed. “If we’re scoring preschool playground scuffles, I’d give it a generous five out of ten. Form’s sloppy, though. Next time, throw your fucking weight into it. Commit, you limp-dicked asshole.”
Elio didn’t come at me again. Disappointment gnawed at the base of my skull, something inside me itching for release, some place to bleed that wasn’t my own patience. He let out a sigh that said I wasn’t worth the paperwork, then looked to Francesco.
“He’s got jokes.”
A headache, too.
I tugged my shirt cuffs into place, grabbed my shiny dress shoes from where I’d tossed them beside the couch last night, and slid them on with a crispclickon the marble. Heat radiated along my cheek, Kayla’s presence brushing me with that perilous pull she carried.
Francesco leaned back against the counter, turning his attention her way. “How drunk do you have to be to forget your standards?”
I licked the blood from my lip and grinned, because fuck it, he wasn’t wrong.
“Go fuck yourself, Franky.”
“Good to see you, too. He’s got a nice jaw,cara mia. Shame if anything happened to it.” He turned his glare back to me, every inch the overprotective cousin who liked to pretend he wasn’t soft. “You drove her back?”
“Sure did.”
Securing my watch on my wrist, I locked eyes with him. From the look on their faces, you’d think I’d fucked her raw on the roulette table instead of, oh no . . . driving her home, drinking half a bottle of vodka, and falling asleep like a respectable gentleman. If I’d known that level of decency would still buy me two Italian glares and a split lip, I might’ve said fuck it and buried my dick between her thighs just to make the punches worth it.
Francesco kicked his feet up on the marble. “Admittedly, I’m curious about this. How the hell do you plan on sitting in your shiny little Fed office when you’re still balls-deep in cartel shit?”
“Very carefully,” I muttered. Daddy Braga’s favorite blueprint: build a soldier, hollow out the boy, stitch the carcass together nice enough to stroll the halls of power and call it progress.
Elio tilted his head. “You’re a special kind of suicidal, man.”
Don’t I know it. I reached into my jacket, pulling out a folded slip of paper. Tossed it onto the counter between them.
“What’s that?” Elio frowned.
“Olive branch.”
“Looks more like homework,” Francesco said.
“Details for a few deliveries. Some batches of Brazilian snow rolling through this afternoon.” I locked eyes with both of them, daring them to question it. “Vargas and Dominguez are dropping the first batch around two. Maybe it’ll chill your prissy asses out. Also,” I added, flexing my jaw just to feel the pain again, “I really hope there’s no bruise on my face right now, because if there is, I’m happy to show your cousin committee why the Cartel’s gore videos go viral in seventeen fucking countries. And not because of thesoundtrack.”
19 | Lucius
23 years old
Present day
