The warehouse smelled like rust and fear.
I adjusted my fake glasses and smoothed down my cheap blazer. Six months of playing Ava Rossi, mild-mannered accountant, and I still felt like I was wearing a costume. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting harsh shadows across stacks of shipping containers that probably held more than imported olive oil.
"You sure you can handle this, sweetheart?"
Vincent's voice dripped with the kind of condescension that made my trigger finger itch. He leaned against a forklift, picking his teeth with a pocket knife. Real classy.
"I can handle numbers just fine." I pushed my glasses up my nose—a nervous habit I'd perfected for this role. "That's why Mr. De Santis hired me, right?"
Vincent snorted. "Sure. Numbers."
The thing about being undercover is that everyone assumes you're weak. They see the glasses, the nervous gestures, the way I duck my head when men raise their voices. They don't see the .38 strapped to my thigh or the fact that I can drop a grown man in three seconds flat.
My phone buzzed. A text from Sofia, my FBI handler: Stay safe. Remember the 72-hour rule.
Right. Seventy-two hours. That's how long the Bureau would wait before declaring me compromised or dead. No rescue missions. No second chances. Just a closed file and a flag-draped coffin if I screwed this up.
I deleted the text and slipped the phone back into my purse, next to the recording device that looked like a compact mirror.
"He's here," Vincent announced.
The side door opened with a screech of metal on metal. Two men dragged in a third—a thin guy in his forties wearing a blood-stained shirt. His hands were zip-tied behind his back, and he kept glancing around like a trapped animal.
This was Danny Kozlov, according to my briefing. Former accountant for the Shadow Family. Current problem that needed solving.
"Danny, Danny, Danny." Vincent shook his head like a disappointed teacher. "You know why you're here?"
Danny's voice came out as a croak. "I didn't steal anything. I swear on my mother's grave."
"Your mother's still alive, genius. Lives in Cicero with your sister." Vincent tested the edge of his knife against his thumb. "Nice lady. Makes great pierogi."
The threat was clear. Danny went pale.
"Here's the deal," Vincent continued. "You've been skimming. Not much. Just enough to buy that new Lexus and put your kid in private school. But theft is theft, and Mr. De Santis doesn't like thieves."
I kept my face neutral, but inside I was recording every word. This was exactly the kind of evidence I needed to build a RICO case against the Shadow Family.
"I can pay it back," Danny pleaded. "Every penny. With interest."
"Oh, you will. But first, we need to make sure you understand the consequences." Vincent gestured to me. "Ava here is going to help us with that."
My stomach dropped. This wasn't in the job description when they recruited me as their "accountant."
"Help how?" I asked.
Vincent smiled, and it wasn't pretty. "Danny's been keeping two sets of books. One for us, one for his side business. We need you to figure out exactly how much he stole. And then..." He handed me a baseball bat. "We need you to make sure he remembers this lesson."
The bat was heavier than I expected. Solid wood, well-used. There were dark stains on the handle that could have been blood or could have been coffee. I didn't want to know which.
"I'm an accountant," I said carefully. "Not an enforcer."
"Tonight you're both."
Danny started crying. Actual tears streaming down his face. "Please. I have kids."
This was the moment. The choice every undercover agent fears. Break cover and blow six months of work, or cross a line that would haunt me forever.
I looked down at the bat, then at Danny. He was somebody's father. Somebody's husband. A man who made a stupid mistake and was about to pay a price that no mistake deserved.
But I also thought about my own father. Agent Michael Carter, found dead in his car three years ago with a single bullet in his head. The official report called it a robbery gone wrong. I knew better.
The Shadow Family was connected to his death. I could feel it. And this case was my only chance to prove it.
"Where are the books?" I asked Danny.
His face lit up with desperate hope. "In the briefcase. Everything's in there."
Vincent pointed to a metal case sitting on a nearby crate. I walked over and popped it open. Inside were ledgers, bank statements, and a stack of documents held together with a rubber band.
I pulled out the first ledger and started flipping through pages. The numbers told a story of small-scale embezzlement—a few thousand here, a few thousand there. Nothing that would bankrupt a major crime family, but enough to make an example.
"Looks like approximately forty-seven thousand over eighteen months," I announced. "Plus interest, call it fifty-five thousand total."
"There, see?" Danny's voice cracked with relief. "I can get you fifty-five thousand. Give me a week."
Vincent shook his head. "That's not how this works, Danny. You need to understand consequences."
He gestured to the bat again.
I felt my heart rate spike. This was it. The moment of truth.
But as I reached for the baseball bat, something else in the briefcase caught my eye. A manila folder tucked under the bank statements. The tab was labeled in Danny's handwriting: "M.C. - DECEASED."
M.C. Michael Carter. My father.
My hands moved before I could stop them, flipping open the folder. Inside was a death certificate—but not the one I'd seen a hundred times in the official case file. This one had a different date. Different time of death. Different cause.
According to this document, my father died three hours earlier than the FBI claimed. And instead of a single gunshot, this report listed "multiple trauma injuries consistent with torture."
The world tilted. The warehouse, Vincent, Danny—everything faded into background noise as I stared at the paper in my hands.
"What's that?" Vincent was looking over my shoulder.
I needed to think fast. "Just another bank statement," I lied, closing the folder and sliding it back into the briefcase. "Nothing important."
But it was everything. Everything I'd been searching for.
My father hadn't died in a random robbery. He'd been tortured. Murdered. And somehow, this small-time embezzler had documentation that proved it.
I looked up at Danny with new eyes. "Where did you get this folder?"
"What folder?" He looked genuinely confused.
"The one marked M.C."
Danny's face went blank. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never seen that before in my life."
He was lying. But before I could press him, Vincent stepped closer. "Enough chit-chat. Time for the lesson."
I gripped the bat tighter. My FBI training kicked in—assess the situation, identify threats, plan for extraction. Vincent had his knife. His two buddies were armed. Danny was helpless.
But I had one advantage. They thought I was just an accountant.
I swung the bat.
Not at Danny. At Vincent.
The Louisville Slugger connected with his wrist in a textbook disarming technique they taught at Quantico. The knife clattered across the concrete floor.
Vincent screamed and grabbed his arm. "What the hell?"
His two buddies reached for their guns, but I was already moving. Six months of yoga classes and self-defense tutorials—all part of my cover story—had actually kept me in decent shape. But it was fifteen years of FBI training that let me roll behind a shipping container before they could draw their weapons.
"She's a cop!" Vincent shouted. "I knew it! I fucking knew it!"
Bullets started flying. I pressed myself against the cold metal of the container and reached for my concealed weapon. The .38 felt solid and familiar in my hand.
But I couldn't shoot. Not yet. My cover might still be salvageable if I played this right.
"Vincent!" I called out. "I'm not a cop! I was trying to scare Danny, not hurt you!"
"Bull-shit!"
More gunfire. A ricochet sent sparks flying near my head.
I needed a distraction. Looking around, I spotted an electrical panel on the wall about ten feet away. If I could reach it and kill the lights, I might be able to escape in the chaos.
Taking a deep breath, I sprinted from cover.
The warehouse plunged into darkness as I yanked the main breaker. Vincent and his boys started shouting, their voices echoing in the sudden blackness.
I moved by memory and instinct, feeling my way toward the exit. Behind me, I could hear Danny whimpering and the Shadow Family soldiers arguing about whether to pursue me or secure the scene.
I was almost to the door when the emergency lighting kicked in. Dim red bulbs cast everything in a hellish glow.
Vincent spotted me immediately. "There!"
I ran.
The night air hit my face like a slap. My car was parked three blocks away—standard procedure for undercover work. I sprinted down the alley, my heels clicking against the pavement.
Halfway to the street, I realized I still had the manila folder clutched in my left hand. In all the chaos, I'd somehow managed to hold onto it.
My father's real death certificate. Proof that everything I'd been told was a lie.
I reached my Honda Civic and fumbled with the keys. My hands were shaking—adrenaline, not fear. I'd been in worse situations during my FBI training.
The engine turned over on the second try. I pulled away from the curb and checked my rearview mirror. No pursuit. Vincent and his crew were probably more concerned with damage control than chasing down one allegedly rogue accountant.
But as I drove toward the safe house, something nagged at me. The whole situation felt wrong. Too convenient. Why would Danny Kozlov, small-time embezzler, have documentation about my father's death? How did that folder end up in his briefcase?
And more importantly—if Danny claimed he'd never seen it before, who put it there?
I stopped at a red light and glanced in my rearview mirror again. This time, I noticed something that made my blood run cold.
A black sedan, three cars back. It had been following me since I left the warehouse.
The light turned green. I drove normally for two blocks, then took a sudden right turn.
The sedan followed.
Left turn at the next intersection.
Still there.
My phone rang. Unknown number.
Against my better judgment, I answered. "Hello?"
"Ms. Carter."
The voice was male, smooth, with just a hint of an Italian accent. It sounded expensive. Dangerous.
"I think you have something that belongs to me."
My grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Who is this?"
"Someone who's been watching you for a very long time. Someone who knows exactly who you are and why you're here."
The black sedan pulled up beside me at the next red light. Through the tinted windows, I could make out the silhouette of a man in the passenger seat. He raised his hand in a small wave.
"The folder, Ms. Carter. It was placed in that briefcase specifically for you to find. A test, you might say."
"A test of what?"
"Your commitment to finding the truth about your father's death."
The light turned green. The sedan accelerated ahead of me and disappeared into traffic.
"Who are you?" I asked again.
"My name is Marco De Santis. And I think it's time we had a proper conversation."
The line went dead.
I sat there at the green light, cars honking behind me, staring at my phone in disbelief.
Marco De Santis. The target of my six-month investigation. The man I was supposed to bring down.
He knew who I was. He'd been watching me. And somehow, he had information about my father's murder.
A car horn blared directly behind me. I stepped on the gas and drove forward, my mind racing.
Everything I thought I knew about this case had just changed. The hunter had become the hunted. And the most dangerous criminal in Chicago was apparently expecting me for tea.
I touched the cross necklace my father had given me for my eighteenth birthday—a nervous habit I'd developed since his death. The small metal pendant felt warm against my fingertips.
"What did you get yourself into, Dad?" I whispered.
My phone buzzed with a text from an unknown number: Tomorrow night. Bella Vista restaurant. Eight o'clock. Come alone.
I stared at the message until the words blurred.
This was either the breakthrough I'd been hoping for, or a trap that would end my career and my life.
Maybe both.
But I knew one thing for certain: I was going to that restaurant. Because after three years of dead ends and official lies, Marco De Santis might be the only person who could tell me the truth about what really happened to my father.
Even if that truth killed me.
End of Chapter 1