Page 4 of Indigo Deception
"Gianna." Her voice softens slightly. "Be careful. These people... they're not just dangerous because of what they do. They're dangerous because of how they make you feel. Safe. Protected. Like family. That's how they draw you in."
My lips curve into a smile. I've studied enough criminal organizations to know how they work. “I'm not easily fooled, Commissioner.”
Kaif gives me a sad smile. "It's not about being fooled. It's about being human. Just... remember who you are. Remember why you're there."
As if I could forget. The image of my father's body slumped over his desk, blood pooling on his account books, is seared into my memory. It's what drives me. What keeps me focused when others burn out.
I won't be distracted by a pretty face or a charming smile. I'm going to be the one who finally brings Angelo Bellanti and his entire criminal empire down and I will relish every moment.
* * *
The Bellanti Holdings building rises sixty stories above Manhattan.
As I step through the revolving doors into the marble-floored lobby, I'm hit by the absurdity of it all—blood money transformed into this temple of capitalism, laundered clean by clever accounting and expensive lawyers.
It's all so disgustingly clean.
My heels click sharply against the polished floor as I approach the security desk. I've chosen my outfit carefully: a charcoal gray suit, crisp white blouse, pearl studs in my ears.
Professional, understated, forgettable.
My newly lightened chestnut hair is twisted into a tight bun, not a strand out of place.
"Sarah Bennett," I tell the security guard. "I have an appointment with the human resources department."
He checks his computer, nods, and hands me a visitor's badge. "Forty-second floor. They're expecting you."
The elevator is mirrored, and I use the ride up to check my appearance one last time. Not mine. Sarah's. I've practiced her walk, her slightly lower voice, her habit of twirling a pen in her hand when working. If there's something I've learned over my years of undercover work, it's that minor details build a convincing lie.
The elevator doors slide open to reveal a reception area that screams wealth—all mahogany, brass, and muted green leather. The receptionist, a young man with a perfect smile, greets me warmly.
"Ms. Bennett, welcome to Bellanti Holdings. Please have a seat. Someone will be with you shortly."
I nod and settle into one of the plush leather chairs, crossing my ankles. The waiting area offers me a view of a long hallway lined with conference rooms and glass walls. I pretend to check my phone while surveying the layout, mentally mapping exit routes and security cameras.
That's when I seehim.
A conference room door opens, and out steps a group of men in expensive suits—board members. I recognize a few from the briefing materials. But it's the man at the center who catches and holds my attention.
Angelo Bellanti.
The photograph didn't do him justice. At just 29, he's the youngest child of the Bellanti family, but carries himself with the gravitas of someone much older.
Standing at exactly 6ft1, he dominates the group, not just with his height but with his presence. His black hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place. His gray suit, with the faintest blue pinstripe—is clearly tailored, hugging broad shoulders and a lean frame.
But it's those eyes that stop me cold—green and sharp and missing nothing as he speaks to the older men around him. There's a confidence in his stance, a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth as he listens to whatever the white-haired man beside him is saying. Even from this distance, I can sense the power he wields, the respect he commands despite his young age.
He doesn't notice me—I'm just another woman in a suit in a waiting room. But I watch him, studying the way he moves, the precise gestures of his hands as he speaks, the attentive way he nods to the older board members. Every movement is controlled, deliberate. This is a man who gives nothing away by accident.
The group reaches the elevator, and Angelo extends his hand to each man, shaking firmly and maintaining eye contact.
A perfect businessman. The perfect cover.
Who would ever guess those manicured hands have metaphorical blood on them?
The elevator doors open, and he steps inside with two of the men. Just before the doors close, he laughs at something one of them says, and the sound carries across the lobby—warm, genuine-sounding. Charming. Disarming.
And then he's gone, the elevator taking him away to some other part of his company.
