A Life in DC
Chapter 6 - Part 3
Clean. Factual. No lies—just strategic omissions wide enough to drive a truck through. He read it twice—slow, line by line—made sure the timestamps matched his notebook entries, hit save, printed a hard copy on the ancient shared laser in the corner (it jammed once; he cleared it without swearing), and walked it down the hall to Montoya's office.
The door was half-open, light spilling into the dim hallway in a warm rectangle. Montoya was still there—sleeves rolled even higher now, exposing the full corded length of her forearms, ponytail loosened so dark strands framed her face and clung slightly to the damp skin at her temples. Feet up on the edge of her desk, ankles crossed, she scrolled through something on her laptop with the focused intensity of someone who hadn't left the building in sixteen hours. The room smelled like her: clean citrus shampoo cutting through the precinct's burnt-coffee haze, faint metallic gun oil from the range bag in the corner, cooling paper from printed reports, and underneath it all the subtle, warm skin-scent of someone who'd showered after morning PT but hadn't quite shaken the day.
Vieri knocked—two soft knuckles on the frame. She looked up immediately, dark eyes flicking from the screen to him in one smooth motion.
"Thought you'd be home by now," she said, voice low, tired but warm, the kind of tired that still carried affection.
"Got delayed." He held up the printout. "Fresh from recon. Harley's moving in the East End. Slippery, but she's there."
Montoya took the pages—fingers brushing his for half a second. Not accidental, but not deliberate either. Just the natural overlap of two people handing off paper in a small space. Professional. No linger. Still, the contact registered: her skin warm, callused at the fingertips from range time, nails short and unpainted. Vieri felt it like a static spark—small, harmless, gone in an instant. He kept his face neutral.
Her eyes dropped to the report. She scanned fast—down the page, flip, down again—nodding once at the timestamps, flipping back to nod again at the patrol recommendations. She didn't speak for a full minute. Just read. The quiet stretched, comfortable but charged, the only sounds the soft click of her mouse wheel and the distant hum of fluorescents in the hall.
He's steady, she thought, gaze still on the paper but awareness split between the words and the man standing in her doorway. Doesn't fidget, doesn't fill silence with bullshit. Just waits. Most guys would've started explaining by now, trying to sell the report like it's a used car. He lets it speak for itself. She liked that. Liked it too much, maybe. The way he stood—shoulders relaxed but posture straight, hoodie stretched across a chest that clearly saw the gym even if he never bragged about it—made something low in her belly tighten. Not lust, not exactly. Curiosity. The dangerous kind that wondered what else he kept quiet about.
When she finished she set the report down carefully—like it was evidence she didn't want to smudge—and leaned back in her chair. The motion pulled her shirt tighter across her chest—full, high, the faint black bra outline visible under white cotton when the fabric shifted just right. Vieri kept his eyes on her face. Mostly.
"Good detail," she said. "Times, location pins, movement description. This is the kind of intel we can actually use. Not the usual 'saw a clown, maybe' bullshit we get from patrol. You even flagged the loading bays. Smart."
He shrugged one shoulder—small, economical.
"Eyes only, like you said."
She studied him a beat longer than necessary—dark eyes steady, searching, the corner of her mouth twitching like she was fighting a smile.
He doesn't preen when you compliment him, she thought. Doesn't deflect either. Just accepts it and moves on. Rare. Her gaze drifted—quick, involuntary—to the way rain had darkened the shoulders of his hoodie, the faint sheen of sweat still at his temples despite the chill outside. He looked tired. Not weak tired. The kind of tired that came from doing hard things well. It made her want to reach out, smooth the tension from between his brows. She didn't.
"You look like hell, Oronzo. Rough night?"
"Long one."
Montoya swung her feet down—chair creaking—stood slow and deliberate. She walked around the desk until she was leaning against the front edge, arms crossed under her chest again. The position closed the distance to maybe three feet. Close enough he could smell her shampoo clearly now—bright citrus cutting through the precinct's stale air—and see the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose, the small silver St. Michael medal glinting at her throat when she shifted. Her hips rested against the desk edge, slacks pulling taut over solid thighs, the faint outline of muscle shifting when she adjusted her weight.
He's close enough I can see the pulse in his throat, she thought. Fast. Not nervous—something else. Adrenaline tail? Or just the night catching up? She felt her own pulse kick up a notch—quiet, steady, the way it did when she was on a good lead or standing too close to someone who interested her. She didn't step back.
"You're giving me usable leads on day three of being attached to this thing," she said quietly. "Most new guys spend the first month chasing ghosts and filing excuses. You're not. You're delivering. I like that."
"Not my style to waste time."
A small, crooked smile tugged at the corner of her mouth—real, not polite.
"Bien. I like that too."
God, that voice, she thought. Low, rough around the edges from fatigue, but steady. The kind of voice that would sound good murmuring in the dark. She pushed the thought down—hard—but it left a warm afterimage. She uncrossed her arms, reached back for a thick manila folder on her desk, and handed it to him.
"Preliminary profile updates on Quinzel. Psych evals from Arkham, last known associates, favorite escape routes, behavioral notes from her last breakout. Read it tonight. Tomorrow we sit down with the rest of the team—Allen, Owen, Glass—and start building the operational picture. Sawyer's in next week; we'll have her energy then."
He took the folder—thick, heavy with staples and tabs. Their fingers brushed again—longer this time, the overlap lingering half a second past professional. Her skin was warm, slightly rough from range time. His was cool from the rain outside. Neither of them pulled away too fast.
His hands are big, she thought, unbidden. Callused. Steady. Bet they'd feel good— She cut the thought off, jaw tightening slightly. Work. Focus.
"Copy that," he said. Voice even, but she caught the faint huskiness—fatigue, maybe, or something else.
Vieri felt it too—the brush of fingers, the warmth of her skin against his, the way her citrus scent wrapped around him when she leaned in to hand off the file. She's close, he thought. Too close for just handing over paperwork. Smells good. Looks tired but still sharp. The way she stands—hips against the desk, arms crossed like she's daring the world to try her—makes it hard to look anywhere else. He kept his eyes on hers. Mostly.
Montoya pushed off the desk—slow, deliberate—stepped past him toward the door. She paused with her hand on the knob—half-turned, ponytail swinging, the motion pulling her shirt tight again across her chest.
"One more thing."
He turned.
She looked at him—really looked. Not suspicious. Not accusing. Just… assessing. Like she was trying to read something written under his skin in invisible ink.
"You smell like trouble," she said quietly. "Not the bad kind. The kind that follows you home and doesn't knock politely."
Vieri held her gaze—steady, unflinching.
"Comes with the job."
"Maybe." She tilted her head—small, thoughtful—dark eyes flicking over his face, lingering on the faint stubble along his jaw, the tired lines at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't flinch when I call him out. Doesn't make excuses. Just owns it. Something low in her belly tightened again—warm, insistent. She ignored it. Mostly. "Just don't bring it into my briefing room unless it's wearing cuffs. We clear?"
"Crystal."
She gave a short nod—satisfied, final—and opened the door wider.
"Go home, Oronzo. Get some sleep. You look like you need it more than I do."
He didn't argue. He walked out—folder under his arm—past the empty bullpen desks, down the stairs that smelled of floor wax and old coffee, out into the rain.
The Civic started on the first try—engine coughing once like an old smoker clearing his throat, then settling into its familiar asthmatic rumble. Vieri let it idle for ten seconds, listening to the fan belt whine softly under the hood, giving the oil a moment to circulate. Rain hammered the roof harder now, a steady white-noise roar that drowned out the distant city hum. He pulled out of the employee lot—slow, headlights cutting pale tunnels through the downpour—and rolled the windows down despite the wet. Cold air slapped his face immediately—sharp, clean, carrying the smell of wet concrete and distant river rot. It stung his eyes, cooled the flush still lingering on his cheeks, cleared some of the fog from his head. Not all of it. Never all of it.
The radio came on low when the ignition turned—classic rock station he never bothered to change, some old Springsteen track already halfway through. "Thunder Road," maybe, or "Born to Run"—one of those highways-and-heartbreak anthems that always sounded better in the rain. He didn't touch the dial. Let it play. The guitar line cut through the static, Bruce's voice rough and urgent, singing about escape and promises that might not hold. Vieri didn't sing along. He just drove—hands loose on the wheel, eyes on the smeared red taillights ahead, letting the song fill the empty spaces the rain couldn't reach.
The streets were mostly deserted. A few late-night delivery vans, a lone cab with its dome light on, puddles reflecting neon from the few signs still burning. He took the long way home—not consciously, just muscle memory steering him past the old Falcone warehouse district instead of the quicker riverfront cut. He didn't look for red-and-black blurs on rooftops. Didn't scan alleys for pigtails or giggles carried on the wind. He just drove. One streetlamp after another sliding across the wet hood.
By the time he turned onto his block the clock on the dash read 1:47 a.m. The porch light was still on—warm yellow glow cutting a soft circle through the downpour, same as always. He pulled into the driveway—gravel crunching under the tires—killed the engine, and sat there. Rain drummed steady on metal. The Springsteen track faded out; the DJ came on with a low murmur about playing the deep cuts tonight. Vieri didn't move for another minute—maybe two—just breathing, listening to the roof take the hits, letting the cold air keep slapping sense into him.
Then he got out. Locked the car. Walked up the three cracked steps to the front door, key turning smooth in the deadbolt like it always did.
Inside, the house smelled the way it was supposed to: lemon polish from the hardwood he still waxed once a month, old books on the living-room shelves, the faint ghost of lasagna from days ago that refused to fade completely. No leather. No cherry lip gloss. No bubblegum. No sweet-chemical aftertaste of chloroform. Just quiet. Just home.
He kicked off his boots by the door—left them to drip on the mat—dropped the manila folder on the kitchen table without opening it. The table was the same scarred oak his parents had bought in the '90s; the folder looked small and harmless on it. He opened the fridge—cold light spilling across the linoleum—grabbed a beer from the back row. Twisted the cap off with his thumb, the metal biting into skin just enough to feel real. Took a long, slow pull. The cold bit his throat, grounded him, chased away the last clinging traces of her taste.
Then he walked into the living room and sank into the armchair.
The same one.
The same worn brown leather armchair Harley had straddled him in that first night with Selina—the same one where everything had started spiraling, where the quiet house had stopped being quiet and started being something else entirely. The cushions still held the faint indent of bodies, the leather still carried ghosts of sweat and perfume if you knew where to breathe. He didn't lean back all the way. Just sat forward, elbows on knees, beer bottle dangling between his fingers, staring at the blank TV screen.
Rain-streaked reflections moved across the dark glass—streetlamp glow, water running in thin rivers, the occasional flash of headlights from a passing car. He watched them without really seeing them.
Tomorrow he'd read the Quinzel file—every psych eval, every escape route, every note from Arkham shrinks who thought they understood her. Tomorrow he'd sit in the briefing room with Montoya and the others—Renata, with her citrus shampoo and steady eyes—and map out the next move. Tomorrow he'd keep pretending the Queens weren't already inside his house, his car, his head. Tomorrow he'd write cleaner reports, run tighter recon, act like the task force was still just a job and not the only solid thing he had left.
For tonight, though, he just drank the beer—slow sips, letting the cold spread through his chest—and listened to the rain.
It drummed on the roof, on the gutters, on the skeletal trees outside. Steady. Soothing. Almost meditative. The kind of rain that washed the city clean for a few hours, even if it never really stayed clean.
He finished the bottle—set it on the side table with a soft clink—leaned back at last, head resting against the cushion that still remembered two women and one long night.
The city outside kept moving—sirens in the distance, a car horn two blocks over, the low rumble of a late freight train crossing the river bridge. But in here, it was just rain and quiet and the faint, stubborn smell of home.
For the first time in a long time, the weight of Gotham didn't feel quite so heavy on his shoulders.
Not tonight.
Not yet.
For the Full 10302 word Version Please check my p.a.t.r.e.o.n: pat.....reon.c.o.m/cw/aFireFist just remove the multiple periods in this link. Thank you for the Support!