I spent the morning staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror of my crappy studio apartment.
The woman looking back at me had dark circles under her eyes and hands that wouldn't stop shaking. I'd managed maybe two hours of sleep after the warehouse incident, most of it filled with nightmares about my father and mysterious manila folders.
The smart thing would be to call Sofia, report what happened, and request immediate extraction. The FBI had protocols for blown covers. I could be on a plane to Virginia by tonight, debriefed and reassigned within a week.
But Marco De Santis knew something about my father's death. Something the FBI either didn't know or didn't want me to know.
I wasn't walking away from that.
The text message glowed on my phone screen: Bella Vista restaurant. Eight o'clock.
Except it was only noon, and my nerves were already shot. I needed coffee, food, and a plan that didn't involve getting myself killed.
My phone rang. Unknown number again.
"Hello?" I tried to sound normal. Failed completely.
"Ms. Carter." That same smooth voice from last night. "I hope you slept well."
I almost laughed. "Like a baby."
"Excellent. I'm afraid I must change our dinner plans. Something urgent has come up."
My heart sank. After psyching myself up for this meeting, the last thing I wanted was a postponement.
"However," Marco continued, "I would very much like to see you for lunch instead. If you're available."
"Lunch is... fine."
"Wonderful. Bella Vista, one o'clock. And Ms. Carter?"
"Yes?"
"Please don't bring any recording devices. They interfere with the ambiance."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone. How the hell did he know about recording devices? Was he guessing, or did he somehow know standard FBI procedure?
Either way, I was definitely not bringing my wire.
Bella Vista sat on the top floor of a downtown high-rise, all floor-to-ceiling windows and white tablecloths. The kind of place where lunch cost more than my monthly rent.
The hostess looked me up and down with barely concealed disdain. My department store blazer and discount heels clearly didn't meet their standards.
"I'm meeting someone," I said. "Marco De Santis?"
Her expression changed instantly. "Of course. Mr. De Santis is waiting for you. Right this way."
She led me through the dining room like I was visiting royalty. Other patrons looked up from their plates, probably wondering who I was to get the VIP treatment.
Marco sat at a corner table with a perfect view of the Chicago skyline. He looked different in daylight—younger, maybe, but no less dangerous. His suit probably cost more than my car, and when he stood to greet me, every movement screamed expensive.
"Ms. Carter." He extended his hand. "Thank you for coming."
His handshake was firm but not crushing. A gentleman's grip. But I noticed the calluses on his fingers—not the soft hands of someone who'd never done manual labor.
"Call me Ava," I said, settling into the chair he pulled out for me.
"Ava." He pronounced it like he was tasting wine. "A beautiful name. Hebrew, isn't it? Means 'life.'"
I blinked. Most people assumed it was short for something else. "You know Hebrew?"
"I know many things." He returned to his seat and signaled the waiter. "I took the liberty of ordering for both of us. I hope you don't mind."
Before I could answer, the waiter appeared with two plates. The smell hit me immediately—garlic, herbs, tomatoes simmered with wine. Osso buco. My father's favorite dish.
My blood went cold.
Marco watched my face carefully. "Something wrong?"
"No, it's..." I forced a smile. "It smells wonderful."
But my hands were shaking again. This wasn't a coincidence. There was no way Marco could know about my father's favorite meal unless he'd done serious homework. The kind of homework that went way beyond a simple background check.
"My mother used to make this every Sunday," Marco said, cutting into his meat. "Before she died, of course. Family recipes are precious things, don't you think?"
I took a bite. It tasted exactly like the osso buco from Gino's, the little Italian place where my father used to take me for birthday dinners. The same restaurant where we'd had our last meal together before he died.
"It's delicious," I managed.
"I'm glad you approve. Family is everything, isn't it? The bonds that tie us together, the loyalties that define us." Marco's gray eyes never left my face. "Tell me, Ava, what does family loyalty mean to you?"
The question felt like a trap. I took a sip of wine to buy time. The vintage was probably worth more than my monthly salary.
"I think loyalty has to be earned," I said carefully. "You can't just demand it because you share DNA."
"Interesting." Marco leaned back in his chair. "And what about chosen family? The people we trust enough to let into our inner circle?"
"That's different. Those relationships are based on respect and shared values."
"Shared values." He repeated the phrase like he was memorizing it. "What values matter most to you?"
Another test. I could feel it.
"Honesty," I said. "Trust. Justice."
"Justice." His accent made the word sound foreign, dangerous. "An admirable goal. But justice and law aren't always the same thing, are they?"
I thought about the warehouse last night, about Vincent's knife and Danny's tears. About the folder that proved my father's death was a lie.
"No," I admitted. "They're not."
Marco smiled. It was the first genuine expression I'd seen from him, and it completely transformed his face. For a moment, he looked like any other attractive man enjoying lunch with a woman.
Then the smile faded, and he was dangerous again.
"You handled yourself well last night," he said quietly.
My fork froze halfway to my mouth. "I'm sorry?"
"Vincent can be... overzealous. I don't approve of his methods."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Marco reached into his jacket. For a terrifying second, I thought he was going for a gun. Instead, he pulled out a manila folder—the same folder I'd stolen from Danny's briefcase.
My heart stopped.
"You dropped this," he said, sliding it across the table.
I stared at the folder like it might explode. "That's not mine."
"No? Then you won't mind if I take it back."
His hand moved toward the folder. Without thinking, I grabbed it first.
Marco's smile returned. "I thought so."
"How did you—"
"Get it back? Vincent is many things, but subtle isn't one of them. He called me the moment you left, ranting about how you'd assaulted him and stolen evidence. I had to calm him down before he did something we'd all regret."
I clutched the folder against my chest. "You mean before he killed me."
"Vincent doesn't kill people, Ava. I do."
The words were spoken so casually, so matter-of-factly, that it took a moment for them to register. When they did, my blood turned to ice water.
Marco continued eating like he'd commented on the weather. "But I'm not going to kill you. You're far too interesting for that."
"Interesting how?"
"You risked your cover to protect a man you'd never met. You could have used that baseball bat on Danny Kozlov and walked away clean. Instead, you chose to fight Vincent and his crew. Why?"
I couldn't tell him the truth—that watching Danny cry reminded me of every victim I'd sworn to protect when I joined the FBI. That seeing him tied up and helpless made me think of my father in his final moments.
"I don't like bullies," I said instead.
"Neither do I." Marco set down his fork and leaned forward. "The men who killed your father were bullies, Ava. Cowards who hide behind badges and government authority."
My throat closed up. "My father died in a robbery."
"Your father died because he got too close to the truth about people like Deputy Director Harrison."
Harrison. Even hearing the name made my skin crawl. The man had been at my father's funeral, expressing his condolences with tears in his eyes. If Marco was right—if Harrison was involved in my father's death—then I'd shaken hands with my father's killer.
"You don't know what you're talking about," I whispered.
"Don't I?" Marco pulled out his phone and showed me a photograph. It was grainy, clearly taken from a distance, but I could make out two figures in what looked like a parking garage. One was definitely my father. The other...
"Harrison," I breathed.
"Taken three days before your father's death. They met six times in the weeks leading up to his murder. Official FBI records show no meetings between them during that period."
I stared at the photo until my eyes burned. "Where did you get this?"
"I have friends in interesting places." Marco put the phone away. "Your father was investigating corruption in the FBI. He discovered that someone in a position of authority was selling information to criminal organizations. When he got too close to identifying that someone..."
"He was killed."
"Murdered. By the same people who are supposed to protect and serve."
The restaurant spun around me. I gripped the edge of the table to keep from falling over.
Everything I'd believed about my father's death was a lie. Everything the FBI had told me, everything I'd accepted as truth—all of it was bullshit.
"Why are you telling me this?" My voice sounded hollow, distant.
"Because you deserve to know the truth. And because I need your help to prove it."
"My help?"
Marco reached across the table and covered my hand with his. His skin was warm, surprisingly gentle.
"The people who killed your father are still out there, Ava. Still in positions of power. Still selling information that gets good people killed. I can't stop them alone."
"I'm just an accountant."
"No." His grip tightened slightly. "You're FBI Agent Ava Carter, badge number 2847, graduated from Quantico three years ago with the second-highest marksmanship scores in your class. You specialized in organized crime and financial investigations. You've been undercover with my organization for six months, reporting to Agent Sofia Williams."
My world tilted. He knew everything. My real name, my badge number, my handler's identity. Six months of careful cover-building, blown to pieces.
"How long have you known?" I asked.
"Since the day you walked into Tony's bar and applied for a job as our bookkeeper. Did you really think we don't vet our employees?"
I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on.
"Then why didn't you just kill me?"
"Because you're not my enemy, Ava. The FBI is your employer, not your family. And the people who killed your father? They're my enemies too."
The waiter appeared to refill our wine glasses. Marco released my hand and smiled at him like we were discussing weekend plans instead of murder and conspiracy.
When we were alone again, I leaned forward. "What do you want from me?"
"Dinner. Tonight. There's a gathering at my home—a family meeting. I'd like you to attend as my guest."
"Why?"
"Because I want my people to see that you're under my protection. And because there are some things I need to show you. Evidence that will make the truth about your father's death impossible to deny."
I thought about Sofia's warnings, about FBI protocols, about the 72-hour rule. By now, my handler would be wondering why I hadn't checked in. Soon, she'd start actively looking for me.
But I also thought about the photo Marco had shown me, about the manila folder full of lies, about three years of believing my father died for nothing.
"If I come to this dinner, what happens to my FBI investigation?"
"What investigation?" Marco's smile was sharp as a blade. "Agent Ava Carter went undercover and fell off the grid. These things happen in our line of work. People disappear. Sometimes they resurface months later with new identities and interesting stories. Sometimes they don't resurface at all."
"And if I say no?"
"Then you go back to your apartment, call your handler, and spend the rest of your life wondering what really happened to your father. Is that the life you want?"
I stared out the window at the Chicago skyline. Somewhere out there, the people who'd killed my father were going about their lives. Collecting paychecks, sleeping soundly, never facing consequences for what they'd done.
"What time?" I asked.
"Eight o'clock. I'll send a car."
Marco signaled for the check. When the waiter brought it, I noticed he didn't even look at the total before handing over a black credit card.
"One more thing," he said as we prepared to leave. "Tonight, you'll be meeting some very dangerous people. They'll be watching everything you do, analyzing every word you say. If they sense weakness or deception..."
"They'll kill me."
"They'll try to. But you're not weak, are you, Ava? And you're certainly not deceptive. You're a woman who wants justice for her father, no matter what it costs."
He stood and moved around the table to pull out my chair. Such perfect manners. Such a dangerous man.
As I stood, my purse strap caught on the chair arm. Marco reached out to help untangle it, his fingers brushing against my wrist.
Right where my FBI-issued tracking device was hidden under a thin bracelet.
His touch lingered for just a second too long. When I looked up, his gray eyes were watching my face with something that might have been amusement.
"Until tonight," he said softly.
I walked out of the restaurant on unsteady legs, my mind reeling. Marco knew about my tracking device. He knew everything—my real identity, my mission, probably even what I'd had for breakfast.
But the most terrifying part wasn't that my cover was blown.
It was that I was starting to trust him.
End of Chapter 2