Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

1. Deadline

one

Deadline

Well, fuck me. Abigail Fitzgerald pulled in a long breath through her nose before calmly pushing out the words her supervisor wanted to hear. “Yes, ma’am. I understand.”

“Good. Keep in touch.” The line went dead before anything more could be said.

Abigail blew out the rest of her sigh and dropped the phone onto her desk. “Dammit.” She slumped back in her chair, the other woman’s warning running through her mind. Of course she had known time was passing and of course she could have guessed her superiors were growing restless. They’re the ones who told me this wouldn’t be an easy job. Still, apparently, they had expected her to find actionable information within a year of focused work.

She’d been in Newark, New Jersey for approximately ten months. She had learned information that had kept her up at night, but nearly all of it was unproveable. And that was the problem.

Abigail drummed her fingers on the desktop as her mind raced. She had until the end of September—just over two months—to magically acquire sufficient information to at least justify federal warrants and deeper, sweeping investigations. If she failed in that, she would be removed from the case and likely shipped elsewhere for reassignment. It would be the first mission she’d failed since joining the FBI.

“No damn way.” She smacked her hand against the desk and shoved to her feet. There had to be something she could do to reinvigorate the case. Her gaze landed on her phone, the screen darkened and displaying only the time and date in neutral white typeface.

It was late, on a Friday, more than halfway through July.

Abigail played out her standard options before giving her head a shake. If her standard options were going to pan out, she would have more than nightmares and one willing witness to show for a ten-month investigation. She needed to do something irregular. Which was when she remembered the crazy idea she’d had, and dismissed, not all too long ago.

She glanced down at herself and frowned. She was going to need to shower and change, and she was going to have to dig something out of her closet that was a little more suited to fun-and-flirty.

Abigail hurried through her apartment, found a cocktail dress that wasn’t as black-tie formal, and laid it out before rushing into the shower. She scrubbed quickly, taking as little time as possible, and forty minutes later she was staring at herself in the mirror fully dressed and makeup freshly applied.

She squinted at herself. “I’ve gone crazy.” She didn’t know for certain she would even find her target, let alone a reasonable opportunity to insert herself into his evening. The one thing she did know was that if she had run this plan by her supervisor for approval, it would take a good two weeks of organizing and meticulous people-placing. And that was precisely why it would also fail. If she was going to succeed, she had to do it on her own.

That was not a perfect solution. She couldn’t safely slip a wire onto herself, which meant the only recording device she had the option of using was her phone. Not to mention she was entirely by herself. That was the much larger danger.

Abigail squared her shoulders and narrowed her eyes at her reflection. “No risk, no reward, right?” Great. I’m talking to myself. It was late enough. She needed to get going. All she could do was hope that she was at least right in knowing which bar to go to.

She slipped her phone, her civilian ID, and a wad of cash into a clutch. Her government ID went into a nearly invisible pocket against one wall of the clutch, where it wouldn’t be found unless someone knew to be looking for it. In lieu of then putting her entire clutch into a larger purse and raising questions, she tucked her gun into the calf of her right boot. A little unoriginal, but effective. She was going out without backup, she wasn’t going out without her gun.

Once she was ready, and her phone pinged with the arrival of her rideshare, Abigail snatched up her keys and made her exit. The clock was ticking. She was not going to fail this mission. Her boss may not yet be sold on the idea that the De Salvos were in fact the power behind New Jersey’s organized crime, but he hadn’t sat across the table from a grown man trembling in fear at their mere name. She’d listened to the stories, even when she hadn’t wanted to. She’d watched a man the same age as her go pale and dry heave into a bucket midway through a story he’d chosen to tell. She’d watched that same man beg, not for immunity, but for protection when the time came.

Months later, she was still haunted by the tales of torture and violence she’d heard from her informant.

Abigail pushed the discomforting thoughts away from her conscious mind as the bar she wanted came into sight. The parking lot was more crowded than she had expected and she was glad she’d opted not to drive herself. She had the driver drop her in front of the entrance, handed over more than enough cash, and let herself out of the car.

She’d driven by the bar in the light of day a couple weeks prior, but that really hadn’t done it justice. It looked much seedier in darkness than she had expected. Still, she took her place in the thankfully short line and slipped out her ID as she approached the bouncer. It was only a handful of minutes before she was making her way into the bustling bar.

Abigail swept her gaze around the space, her clutch held tightly in one hand. There were people grinding and spinning on the dance floor as alt rock pumped from the building’s out-of-sight speakers. Most of the tables were occupied by groups of three or more, sharing drinks and laughs and seeming not to care about anything beyond their table. Two of the three pool tables were in use and Abigail felt her face contort with a wince as she watched a large man in biker leather reach around a young, curvy female in a clichéd scene.

She dragged in a breath and aimed herself for the bar. More than half the stools were open, which surprised her, but that made it easy to take one without being obviously choosy. If someone else wanted to make a scene, she would evaluate the situation as it arose. Until then, she was determined to embrace her act of simply being an overworked single woman looking to unwind just a little bit. A single woman with a particular type.

“What’ll it be, darlin’?” the bartender asked as he turned to lean an elbow toward her. He was at least fifteen years her senior, with graying hair and a full, dark gray beard to match. He had an approachable lift to his lips and patient eyes, like a man who’d spent years listening to people talk.

Abigail offered him a tired smile. “Whiskey, neat.”

One of his brows kicked up. “Wouldn’t o’ pegged you for a whiskey girl.”

She crossed her ankles carefully, settling in on her stool. “I need something to wash down the week.”

The bartender chuckled and tapped his fingers on the bar top as he straightened. “Comin’ right up, then.”

Abigail waited patiently for her drink before adjusting herself to people watch from her perch. She sipped at her drink, debating the wisdom of not also ordering something to eat, and decided she could handle at least one more before she needed a chaser. They use surprisingly good whiskey in this place. It wasn’t necessarily her favorite drink, but she didn’t mind it, either. And maybe she had wanted something to ease her nerves—or soothe the sting in her pride after Mercer’s phone call.

She watched people dance for a bit, watched the girl at the pool table rebuff the biker when he went in for a kiss, and was draining her glass when she spotted him. The man she’d hauled herself out in hopes of finding, sitting in a booth along the far wall with two other men. For a moment she almost wasn’t sure, until she caught sight of his outer arm and the tattoo stretching down to his wrist. That’s definitely him.

Ryōma Satō.

Abigail let her gaze continue its sweeping and held a little tighter to her glass. Part of her hadn’t believed she’d even get this close to him, at least not since she’d thrown this plan together so haphazardly. Her attempt to bump into him in the supermarket a few weeks earlier had bombed miserably, and she was afraid to up her trips to his favorite coffee shop. Yes, she wanted to make contact, but she wanted to do so in a way that encouraged conversation. If he felt like he was being stalked, and her informant was correct, he was more likely to put a hole in her head and leave her where she fell. Not exactly an ideal outcome.

“Need another?” the bartender asked, dragging her back to the moment .

Abigail released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and twisted around, letting her partial updo swing behind her. “Please,” she said, holding out the glass. “And some fries.”

“You got it.” The bartender quickly refilled her drink, then disappeared into the back presumably to put in her order.

Abigail set her clutch on the bar in front of her, trailing her fingers through the light layer of condensation on her glass. She should take her food to a small table when it was ready. Or perhaps a mid-size table, actually. Sitting at the bar was fine in theory, but also tended to be too transient and vulnerable. She wanted to make an impression, even if that impression was ultimately a lie.

A hand settled, heavy and too hot, at the small of her back. Someone leaned into her space, smelling of sweat and tequila and making her crinkle her nose before she’d even turned her head. “Hey, cutie,” an unfamiliar man said, the alcohol stench intensifying with his words.

Abigail leaned bodily the other direction, until she was almost too far off the stool. “It’s hard to be flattered by a horny drunk,” she said, narrowing her eyes at the forty-something man looming over her. “Please step away from me.”

He didn’t bat an eye. “Aw, don’t be like that, babe.” His hand dragged lower, surely rumpling her dress as he reached for her butt. “I just—”

Abigail swept out her arm, knocking his off of her as if she were swatting a fly. “You don’t have permission to touch me. Step back.”

This time his brow furrowed and she gathered he was the stubborn asshole kind of drunk. He reached up and fisted a handful of her hair, pulling hard enough to draw her head back. “I wasn’t askin’ for your permission, bitch.” He leaned in, his breath washing over her and making her stomach turn.

Abigail opened her mouth to warn him one final time, but she was beaten to it.

Her assailant went completely still and a different voice—stronger, and instinctively more appealing—said, “Oh, it’s that kind of night, is it?” There was a brief pause and she registered the presence of another male standing behind her, from the opposite direction. Something about this one was almost reassuring and she had to tell herself that was stupid. If her real ID somehow fell out of her clutch in the next second, every single person in that bar would turn against her.

Her assailant stammered, “I-I just … she was—”

“Let the lady go,” the newcomer said, his voice firm. “Don’t make me make a scene.”

The grip on her hair released after only a single second. Her would-be assailant wasn’t so drunk as to not recognize when he was in over his head, it seemed. Abigail straightened carefully, one hand on her clutch and both heels resting on the low bar of her stool. She exhaled as the stench of tequila and sweat faded, indicating the man had moved back. Her head was turning in that direction when she noticed movement on her other side and the second voice spoke again, his tone gentled faintly.

“Sorry about that. You okay?”

She caught enough of a glimpse to see the drunk making his way toward the door, well out of reach and looking away. Resettling on her seat so as to avoid further embarrassing herself, Abigail swung her focus the other direction and her mouth dropped open. No way. There was no damn way her target was the man who’d just come to her rescue.

Yet there he sat, or perched, on the stool at her left, one dark brow arched and lips kicked faintly up at one corner. The collar of his black T-shirt was not high enough to obscure a tattoo curving close to the base of his neck, though she couldn’t identify the design. The shirt didn’t even cover his elbows, though, so the artwork on his arms was mostly bare. And up close, the brilliant crimson flowers that dotted the reedy forest-like design were strikingly vivid.

Abigail swallowed hard and told herself she was not—absolutely not —checking out her mark. No matter if she liked tall, muscular men. Particularly tall, muscular men with tattoos. It was her secret. Focus, Abby. “I’m fine,” she finally said. “Though I’d have probably gotten thrown out if I’d had to deal with him myself, so, thank you for the assist.” She might normally have said something sharper, but she wanted to be approachable. That was okay, right?

Shutting oneself away to study and train for years did not do much for learning social skills, it turned out.

Ryōma’s lips lifted in a more visible grin. “We wouldn’t want that.”

The bartender chose that moment to set down her basket of fries. “Here ya go,” he said to her. His gaze darted between them with visible surprise. “Everything okay here?”

Abigail tried for a reassuring smile.

“We’re all good,” Ryōma said. He stood and held out his hand to her. “Come join me at a table. It’ll be quieter than eating at the bar. ”

Seriously? She blinked up at him and let herself frown. Best not to look too eager. “I hesitate to say we’ve even met. Why would I do that?”

Her response seemed to amuse him. “Because you don’t want more drunks coming to bother you.”

“And your mere presence will prevent that?” She arched both brows deliberately to accentuate her disbelief.

“Yep.”

That just made her all the more desperate to ask every question she’d compiled. All of which, of course, she had to bite back. Instead, she said, “What if I wanted to drink alone?”

Ryōma raked his gaze over her blatantly and she swore she felt the heat wash over her skin before their eyes met again. “I don’t think you do. But I’m only asking for the pleasure of your company for a drink. I’m not asking you to leave with me.” His eyes suggested he might before the night was through.

Abigail pretended to mull it over, taking the opportunity to sip at her still untouched second drink. “Fine,” she said slowly, “but if someone harasses me despite your magnificent presence, I get to walk away.”

His grin nearly split his face. “Deal.” He lifted his gaze to the bartender, who had stepped aside but was obviously eavesdropping. “Put her tab on mine tonight.”

Abigail let him take her fries as she tucked her clutch under her arm and grabbed up her drink, and she slipped her free hand into his obligingly. The hand-holding honestly seemed like overkill, but if he wanted to play possessive for the evening, she could let him. That was her thought, at least, until she felt the spark of her skin sliding against his. It was unreal. She sucked in a breath, fighting the reflexive urge to yank her hand away. This might be a more dangerous idea than I’d thought….

Ryōma led her to a small table, nudged a chair out for her with one booted foot and set down the fries. “Here you go,” he said, releasing her hand accordingly.

As she sat, another man in black-on-black took a step in their direction. He barely glanced her way, instead raising his arm and calling, “Yo, Ryo. We’re heading out.”

Ryōma nodded once before dropping into the chair across from her.

Abigail plucked a fry from the basket and gave him a curious look. “Sure you wouldn’t rather go with your friends?”

“Just work associates,” he said. “That one wouldn’t shut up about his day. Bailing you out saved me from a headache.”

The laughing smile she offered him was a little too easy. “Glad to be of service.” She bit into her fry and eyed her drink. She was going to need at least one more of those to make it through this, but the whiskey no longer sounded like the right choice.

As if reading her mind, Ryōma flagged down a passing waitress and ordered himself a drink. Then he glanced her way. “You want anything else?”

Remembering his words from earlier, and reminding herself she still needed to ease into the casual atmosphere she was hoping for, Abigail countered with her own question. “You’re paying?”

His grin returned. “Rude of me to offer your money, don’t you think? ”

“It would be,” she replied honestly. She lifted her whiskey, buying herself a moment, and said, “I’ll take an appletini, then.” It would be fine. She had the fries.

Ryōma swallowed down his latest stolen fry as he eyed the beautiful woman across from him. He’d spied her when she’d first walked into the bar, looking around as if she may never have set foot in a bar in her life. So when she’d nearly thrown herself off her barstool to escape the touchy drunk suddenly hovering over her, he hadn’t thought twice about intervening. It hadn’t been his plan to spend the rest of his free night with her.

Except the more they talked, the more that was exactly what he wanted to do.

“I’m dying to know,” she said as she lowered her glass, “what kind of flower is that? In your tattoo, I mean.”

He flicked an obligatory glance down to his exposed forearms. Not that he needed to look. He could have painted the design he wore on his skin purely from memory if he were any kind of artist. “Peony,” he answered. Her innocent inquiry opened the door to a series of questions he didn’t feel like discussing, so he volleyed one of his own back at her instead. “Speaking of things we’re dying to know, think you could tell me your name?”

The raven-haired beauty blinked her bright blue eyes at him for one long second, her still glossed lips just slightly parted. In the next second a pink flush darkened what seemed to be her naturally pale complexion and she brought her hand to her face as if to hide behind it before finally saying, “Abigail. Most people call me Abby.” Her lips lifted in a smile. “I’m sorry. When we sat down, that man called you Ryo, so it never occurred to me to exchange names.”

He twirled his glass, careful not to tip it so far that the remaining contents spilled out. “Ryōma,” he said. “But Ryo doesn’t bother me.” It was hard to be bothered by a nickname after having had his birth name stripped from him.

“Ryōma,” she repeated. Her fingers trailed around the base of her drink glass. “Do you travel a lot? You strike me as a man who doesn’t sit still much.”

He arched a brow, intrigued by the question. “Do I?” He knocked back the rest of his drink, eyeing the glass momentarily. He’d had a couple beers while he’d been sitting with the guys earlier. Probably he should consider cutting himself off. “I suppose you could describe me that way,” he said. “I get around.”

Abby lifted her drink too slowly to mask the grin that tipped her lips. “I thought as much.” She took a long sip and her gaze flicked past him moments before the sense of another presence raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

Ryōma adjusted in his chair and turned enough to see the rather unwelcome sight of Rodrigo Silva, the chief of police, stepping up to the edge of his personal space. What the fuck? He schooled his expression into a cool neutral for the sake of his preferred companion. “Silva. Something I can help you with?” He spent enough time in this bar to know it was not the older man’s usual haunt. He might even have been concerned if not for the man’s casual attire and lack of armed escort.

Silva cast a lingering glance in Abby’s direction. “My apologies for interrupting.”

Ryōma felt his hand curl into a fist and lowered it to his lap.

Silva didn’t make him repeat himself before clearing his throat and continuing. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with your boss since Wednesday, but he doesn’t seem to be taking my calls.”

No shit. “Have you left messages?” It wasn’t Ryōma’s place to spread word of the events in his boss’s life, let alone word that certain groups would feel inclined to use against them. Silva fell into the latter category.

“One, yesterday.”

“Then I’m sure he’ll get back to you when he has a moment.” Ryōma uncurled his fist and gestured vaguely around him. “Unless it’s an emergency, I’d like to get back to my night off.”

Silva held up a hand as if in defense of himself. “Of course, of course. I really just wanted to pass along my congratulations.” He inclined his head, glancing again toward Abby. “I’ll leave you be. You two have a good night.” He turned and cut wide around the writhing dance floor, in the direction of the exit.

Ryōma blew out a breath, willing his muscles to unclench. He was almost positive the boss hadn’t wanted outside parties to know about Vittorio’s arrival just yet. Congratulations my ass. The chief of police was playing games, trying to flex his imagined muscle in a way that made him feel like he still had power. Ryōma made a mental note to talk to Cris about that in the morning, when he wouldn’t lose his own head for calling with a non-emergency.

“Was he some kind of local politician or something?” Abby asked. “He looked kinda familiar.”

Ryōma faced her properly again, the frown on his face morphing easily into another faint grin. “Kind of,” he echoed. “That was the local chief of police. I take it you don’t keep up with that sort of thing?”

She blinked at him for a second before scrunching up her nose in blatant distaste and draining her appletini. “Way too much trouble. I barely even pay attention to the news these days.”

He chuckled. “Can’t blame you for that.”

“Still, should I be concerned that my current companion seems to have such a tense relationship with the local chief of police?” Her eyes flashed as she leaned forward to rest her elbows on the table, her own lips lifting in a small, teasing grin. The flirty scoop neck of her dress dropped a little lower, providing him a bird’s-eye-view of her cleavage.

No longer sure it was the alcohol that had his head spinning, Ryōma swung to his feet and laid his hand practically in front of her face, palm up. “Dance with me.”

Abby craned her neck back to blink up at him, her hair sliding over her shoulder to fall down her back. “I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

It took all his will power not to stare down her dress. “Say yes.”