Consumed by the Mafia (De Salvo Family #5)

25. Stay

twenty-five

Stay

It was all over the morning news. Everything from local stations to national online publications were reporting on the takedown of a major criminal network involving over a dozen speculated dirty cops and the Irish mob. Blurry, hard to make out photos of men in brightly labeled FBI vests hauling away other men still wearing police blues were plastered across every damn screen Ryōma laid eyes on. It should have been satisfying.

Instead, each and every time he saw the same fucking headline, his temper only spiked higher.

He dropped his knuckles as calmly as he could on the door to the suite Cris and Felicity were borrowing. It’d been a long goddamn night, he wasn’t the only one who’d slept like shit, and he was about to crawl out of his skin.

Felicity pulled the door open seconds later and offered him a tired smile. “Morning,” she said. She turned and started back for the large bed that took up only half of the space, leaving him to follow.

Ryōma stepped inside, even managing not slam the door, before ambling further into the room. The couple was going to be staying at Mikey’s for a while. In part because Cris had been ordered to bed rest for the next few days and a gradual return to functionality after that if all went well. Also in part because the tower was structurally unstable at the moment.

The bomb itself had been discovered to have been planted in one of the residences on floor twenty-four—an associate of Marchesi whose body had been found two days earlier in the front seat of a car, with a gun in his lap and a hole blown out of his head. Everyone assumed he’d known about the bomb. Nothing they could do about that now. The better news was, though the bomb had destroyed most of twenty-four and twenty-five, and destabilized the building as a result, the actual damage hadn’t extended up to the penthouse. So as long as it didn’t collapse before repairs could be made, Cris and Felicity could eventually go home.

Ryōma was glad for that, for their sake. He knew the tower was important to Cris.

Cris let out a low grunt as Ryōma made it up to his side. “You’re not here to gush about this takedown.” He fingered a printed-out paper resting in his lap.

“A guy can’t check on his friend?” Ryōma asked, arching a brow. He flicked a glance at the paper and was surprised to see it wasn’t the same picture he’d seen everywhere else. “That’s at least new.”

“Mikey printed it for us,” Felicity said as she crawled up to her husband’s side. “Said he had a hard time finding it, too.”

Cris pushed out a breath. “They’re probably trying to let the dirty cop angle take center stage while they dig up all the information they need to make their charges stick.” He lifted the paper slightly and a wicked smirk tipped his lips. “But I’m gonna fucking frame this.”

Ryōma studied the paper. It was an almost too-bright image of Brendan Coughlan himself, obviously straining against the officers behind him, his body pointed at a man in another FBI vest. The fed was mostly facing away from the photographer, and Coughlan was clearly enroute to a waiting vehicle. From the look on Coughlan’s face, he was either cursing up a storm or issuing a stupidly violent threat. Regardless, his arrest was visual, and in that sense, it suddenly became palpable.

Coughlan was in custody.

Ryōma exhaled and smiled briefly back at his friend. “That’s a good one.”

“You can frame it,” Felicity said, “but it’s not going up on the wall. Put it in your office or something.” She laid her head on his shoulder and stroked her hand up his chest, resting it over his heart. She had some bandages on her knees from the tumble to the concrete and a lesser scrape on the underside of one arm, but none of her wounds would scar. For which everyone was grateful.

Cris lowered the photo. “I know, baby.”

Ryōma moved back to one of the two chairs in the room. His own wounds had been stitched and wrapped, but he was technically supposed to be taking it easy. Whatever the fuck that meant. “How’re you feeling?” He didn’t want to sit in silence. He wasn’t thrilled with talking about the takedown, but if he had to choose, he supposed silence was worse.

Silence would dredge up the angry, unsatisfied beast in his chest.

“Like I got shot,” Cris replied, deadpan. Felicity made a sound of disapproval and he stretched the arm she was technically pinning until he had hold of her thigh. “You know I hate bed rest. Makes me twitchy.”

Ryōma attempted a chuckle. He did know that.

Another knock sounded at the door, and before Ryōma could push back to his feet the door swung open. Ryōma stood anyway as Cris’s family filed in—most of them, anyway. There were only two chairs and he wasn’t about to take a seat from a pregnant woman, or his boss.

“What the fuck is all this?” Cris asked, voice suddenly gruff. “Did someone die?”

Ryōma felt his throat constrict. No one in that room was missing Abby, let alone the way he was. She wasn’t who his friend referred to. That didn’t stop the words from driving a freshly sharpened knife through the wound of her continued absence. He hadn’t heard a word from her, directly, since she’d told them to evacuate the tower. The last he knew at all was that she’d spoken to Brandi, and almost immediately after, sent Brandi one confounding and equally concerning text message. Then her phone’s signal had disappeared.

“You’re the only one who almost died, jackass,” Romeo said sharply.

We don’t know that. Ryōma bit the words back.

“I’ve been out of the car all of three minutes,” Grace said. She was waving Romeo off when Ryōma refocused and he imagined he’d missed the part where her doting husband had asked her to take a seat. “If anyone should be sitting, it’s the man with the hole in his leg.”

Ryōma blinked, caught off-guard by the statement. He hadn’t seen all of them the previous day, but he was fairly certain he was the only one in the room that description applied to. Sure enough, multiple sets of eyes shifted his way expectantly. He shook his head until he found his voice. “I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you.” He should go. Things felt okay between him and Cris, but he wasn’t sure where he stood with the rest of the family. And even on the best of days, moments like these were reserved for blood. He inclined his head. “I’ll let you—”

“Stay,” Dante said. The air in the room stilled for a second. He gestured to the chairs. “Grace, Ryōma, both of you sit. Mikey can find us more chairs.”

“Already on the way,” Mikey offered.

Grace sighed. “So demanding.” She shuffled up to the bedside, reached over, and pulled Felicity’s nearest hand into hers. At the same time, she reached down and gave Cris’s hand a squeeze. “We’re glad you’re both okay. One of you was unconscious when Romeo was here yesterday, and I wasn’t allowed out of the house until this morning, so I wanted to say it myself.” Then she let go, turned, and ambled to one of the available chairs.

Ryōma watched, unable to move. He didn’t know if he felt honored and humbled or if the thing in his stomach was dread.

He heard Romeo sigh before moving up to Grace’s side and leaning in to press a kiss to her temple. “You say that like it was a punishment, angel.”

Ryōma looked away and finally made his feet move, returning to the chair he’d claimed minutes earlier. He sat, and proceeded to watch the family give brief but nonetheless heartfelt expressions of relief and gratitude at seeing Cris awake and lucid. In their own ways. More chairs were delivered and soon everyone had a place to sit—either a chair or their spouse’s lap, in Iris’s case. They’d formed a strange semi-circle around the bed in order to keep Cris and Felicity included, and Ryōma found it unexpectedly sentimental.

Maybe uncomfortably so.

“ Now will you say why you’re actually here? This warm and fuzzy shit’s starting to make me think I’m hallucinating,” Cris said after the door closed and the last person had settled.

Yes, work. Work would be fantastic. This would be the strangest fucking work meeting he’d ever been called in on, but Ryōma could deal with that. Maybe there were some stragglers, or the boss wanted to dive right into planning how and when he’d break Coughlan out and slaughter the bastard.

“The job’s not quite done,” Dante said plainly. “Things went a little awry last night and one of ours went missing. ”

Ryōma locked his teeth around his tongue. He could only imagine how much trouble he’d get in if he had to refuse an order in the interest of chasing a woman who still carried an FBI badge, but fuck, he couldn’t abandon her. No matter what conclusions anyone else had drawn.

“Brandi and I stayed up late doing some diving,” Mikey said. “Between what we learned from local contacts last night and the scraps we found we were able to piece some things together.” He paused as Brandi passed him a tablet she’d apparently had in her purse. “The source responsible for leaking Abigail’s location, which subsequently got her apartment raided and resulted in that crash last weekend, was Special Agent Dale Morrow out of Arkansas.”

Ryōma felt his brows disappear somewhere in his hairline. They were talking about Abby? What the fuck does that mean? The only thing he clearly understood was why he’d been asked to stay. If it involved Abby, he wanted to know. All of it.

“ Arkansas ?” Romeo repeated.

Ryōma heard himself speak despite not remembering making the choice. “That was where she was stationed before.”

A couple of heads nodded and Mikey continued, “Morrow would have known Abigail, and we eventually found records indicating he was jealous of her rapid promotion. But that isn’t the worst of it.”

Felicity sat up a little straighter on the bed. “So, this guy didn’t leak her information just because he was some jealous asshole?”

“No,” Mikey said. “He leaked it because he had connections to the Coughlan mob. ”

Ryōma felt his stomach bottom out, Abby’s last known communication flashing through his mind again.

“Fucking what?” Romeo asked, sitting forward.

“That last bit we learned from one of our own guys,” Mikey added. “Dale Morrow is dead—” He cut his eyes to Ryōma. “Sorry, for that and for the next part.” Then he looked again around the room. “He assaulted the agent who picked him up from the airport last night, reportedly revealing himself as a traitor in an attempt to sway that agent to his side on Coughlan’s behalf. During the struggle, their SUV rolled, resulting in injuries to both parties. Other agents intervened and had no choice but to use lethal force to subdue him, according to the report I finally hacked into earlier this morning.”

Ryōma felt as though he were drowning. He couldn’t draw breath and his body wasn’t responding properly. Things hurt that shouldn’t have hurt, and the things that arguably should have been hurting felt numb. It was an effort to force his mouth open, and another effort to push words off his tongue. “Where is she?” He didn’t need to ask who the agent in that report had been. They all knew.

Mikey fell silent. The room fell silent.

The silence enraged him.

Ryōma shoved to his feet. “ Where —”

“Alive,” Mikey said. He held his tablet out, screen facing Ryōma in offering. “But they’re taking extra precautions. They haven’t mentioned her by name, anywhere, or listed her location since the accident. All I know is that one of our EMS units was called to patch her up, so we have a decent idea of her condition after the crash.”

Ryōma took the device, quickly finding the summary of the report. His chest tightened, but at the same time, it was a little easier to breathe with confirmation that she had survived. Even if she was wounded.

Mild concussion. Multiple lacerations. She’d had a stab-like wound bad enough and deep enough to need stitches that had come perilously close to her spine, at the back of her shoulder. Lesser scrapes and of course bruising. A notation of temporary hearing loss, likely due to close-contact gunfire. A second notation that no evidence of a gunshot wound was seen.

As Ryōma read, Dante spoke. “We have to assume they’re holding her in protective custody, under the belief that Coughlan will still make a play for her.”

Ryōma swallowed hard and handed the tablet back to Mikey. Anger still swirled in his blood, but he had nothing to do with it. “Then what?” He turned his stare to his boss. He couldn’t hope to hide the storm inside him, so he didn’t try. “I let her sit? Leave her behind?” He could barely even say the words.

“No,” Dante said, his tone and expression entirely calm. “The feds can’t press charges without her, and they’re going to want their top dogs doing the legal fighting. So I made a call on the way over.” His lips twitched as he continued. “Abigail is one of us now, whether she likes it or not. We’ll have her location by the end of the day.”

Abigail was going absolutely stir-crazy. For three days she had been basically trapped in protective custody. The same four stoic, unapproachable, boring guards rotated shifts as her security detail—making sure nothing came in and that she didn’t endanger herself by trying to leave. Heaven forbid. If they didn’t let her out soon, she was going to hurt someone. More than likely herself, in the process of attempting to full-body slam a muscle-bound guard guy, but damn, at least that might get her a conversation. Maybe even a trip to the hospital.

Thinking about it that way, maybe it was time she upped her schedule. Who needed another boring box lunch? And why is the government so cheap with their star witness?

Supposedly she was critical. Especially ever since Rodrigo Silva had committed suicide rather than face the consequences of what he’d done. It had been hard not to snort at that revelation, but she’d managed to keep a straight face. In the end, the FBI was working overtime to uncover all the connections and poorly buried dirt before they were forced to release a buttload of criminals, and they insisted Abigail’s testimony at the inevitable and endless sea of trials was key. But if they thought she was going to sit in protective custody for the number of years it would take to get through all those trials, they were beyond mistaken.

Most of her scrapes and bruises were well on their way to healed. Her headache was gone—finally—and her back only hurt when she stretched too much. Unavoidable, really. The stitches would be able to come out in another few days, which was great. In her mind, she was good to go.

She was doing some careful yoga for lack of any better options when the interior door unlatched and someone dropped their knuckles on the frame. Abigail snapped her head up, then pushed fully to her feet at the semi-familiar sight of ADA Nick Walters. “Hi.”

He smiled and waved a folder at her, the sound of the door clicking shut behind them indicating that her guard had stepped around to give them privacy. As per the rules. “How are you doing?”

“Going crazy. Please tell me that’s the paper demanding my soul in exchange for my freedom.” Was that too forward?

Walters chuckled and lowered himself to the far side of the worn sofa. “It’s a sort of NDA,” he said, flipping it open. “I’m sure you understand, but essentially, you can’t reveal the location of the safehouse or any of the details of the case as you know them. You also consent to being removed from the case for your own security, and for objectivity purposes, effective immediately.”

Abigail blinked. It sounded like she actually was being let out. She was a little afraid to get her hopes up. “Is this for real? Am I getting out?” She moved to sit beside him and accept the pen he’d pulled from a pocket. “I’ll sign that. Honestly, the only thing I want to talk to Agent Albert about is how I can hand in my badge without compromising the case. So this is no big deal.”

Walters tilted his head as he handed her the folder. “You’re leaving the bureau?”

Abigail let her eyes skim over the writing, catching words that corroborated what he’d told her, and flipped to the areas that needed signing. “I know it sounds weak,” she said, “but all this has kind of … changed my perspective, I guess. Especially—maybe mostly—the shit with Dale.” She had to sell it, after all.

He hummed and she thought she saw his head bob once as she scrawled her name on the necessary line. Not until she was handing the folder back, pen tucked inside, did he quietly ask, “Are you sure this isn’t more to do with the De Salvos?”

She gaped, just a little, before snapping her mouth shut. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. I spent months with De Salvo tunnel-vision, and I—”

He pulled a folded-up piece of paper from inside his coat pocket and stuck it into her hands. “Your secret is safe with me, Agent Fitzgerald.” He smiled a little too knowingly, tucked away his pen, and added, “Welcome to the family.” Then he stood and stepped from the sofa. “You have about an hour to pull yourself together before your ride gets here. And don’t worry about your testimony. We’ll do our best to use that video you recorded yesterday.”

He was gone before she could pick her jaw up off the floor and Abigail barely thought to curve her palm enough to keep the paper from her guard’s sight when he re-entered the room. Instead, after Walters left, she stood and declared her need to gather her clothes and use the restroom. It wasn’t like she had much in that house that was actually hers.

Once she was locked in the bathroom, she unfolded the paper.

Bringin’ you home, baby girl. Be ready.

Tears rushed her eyes and Abigail shoved the paper into her bra to keep it from being found. She couldn’t quite believe that one of the state’s top prosecutors was on Dante De Salvo’s payroll, but she wasn’t about to complain. There was no doubt in her mind the FBI would have left her in that damn house as long as they felt was necessary. And to her, it hadn’t ever been necessary.

The next hour passed like molasses. Abigail caught herself wondering if time had stopped altogether, going so far as to check the batteries in the clock, before her nondescript transportation finally arrived. From there she was taken back to FBI headquarters, unloaded, and escorted straight to Julian Albert’s office. She was surely expected to check in and discuss her potential return to work or reassignment, and she figured he might expect her to argue being removed from the case.

Special Agent Albert smiled in welcome when she stepped into his office. “It’s good to see you, Abigail. Are you feeling better?” He motioned to the chairs as if they needed to have a long chat.

She obliged, anyway. “Very much, thank you.” She set her lone bag at her feet. “Sir— ”

“You understand why you can’t work this investigation any further,” he said, his brow furrowing, as he moved to lean backwards against the outward facing side of his desk.

Abigail nodded. “Yes,” she said. “I understand and I’m not upset over it.” She paused for a beat and drew a breath. “Actually, sir, I know this might be difficult, but … is it possible to step down altogether?”

He arched a brow at her.

She launched into the speech she’d had nothing but time to work on over the past few days, explaining how shaken up she’d been emotionally over Dale’s betrayal. How that had led her to truly recognizing all the grime caked into the system, and that recognition in turn had fractured her trust. She was proud of herself for the story, but disheartened to realize how little of it was a lie.

Albert was frowning in a sad way when she finished. “I see,” he said. “That is a shame. The FBI can always use a natural talent like yours, especially one with such a staunch belief in right and wrong.” He offered her a smile. “But you’re free to leave, Abigail. If this isn’t what’s right for you, I would only be endangering you and your future partners by demanding you stay in the field. So as long as you promise to be available, in case that video testimony isn’t enough down the road, you can hand over your badge and walk out right now.” He gave a low chuckle. “I don’t think you even have your gun.”

“I don’t,” she confirmed with a half-smile of her own. She dug into her pocket and extracted her badge, ran her thumb over the laminated interior, and set the entire thing on the coffee table. Then she stood, lifted her bag, and inclined her head. “Thank you, and good luck.”

She walked out of the building, feeling lighter with each step. She didn’t know exactly where she needed to go—Ryōma’s note hadn’t left any rendezvous instructions—so she let her feet guide her. She walked away from the FBI building, wandering down the street and around the corner aimlessly, her eyes eventually drawn up to the sky.

The smoke from that fire was gone. She’d forgotten about the smoke.

“You should watch where you’re going, baby girl.”

Her heart leaped to her throat and Abigail whipped around, spotting the most welcome sight she had seen in longer than she could remember. Ryōma, striding toward her, a grin on his wicked lips and hunger in his eyes. She should have been concerned about the bandage peeking out from beneath the sleeve of his T-shirt, but she was too excited to focus on that detail. She couldn’t even keep hold of her bag. “Ryōma!”

He caught her with an arm low around her waist and a hand in her hair, hauling her up to him for a wet, demanding kiss. He dragged his teeth over her lower lip, sucked on her tongue, and tongue-fucked her mouth until she couldn’t breathe. All the while she clung to him, her fingers twisting in his loosely restrained hair and digging at his own muscles.

This. This was where she’d longed to be for the past so many days. Maybe for her entire life. Nowhere specific, just the only place that had ever felt so good and so safe . Ryōma’s arms was that place .

The kiss broke and Abigail licked her lips, not pulling away from him. “Are you okay? Did you—”

“That’s my fuckin’ line,” he said with a scoff. He shifted his hold, bringing both hands up to cup her cheeks. “We have shit to talk about, Abby. I know. But just let me say this.”

She blinked, confused by the intensity in his voice. All she could do was nod a little and keep her hands twisted in the back of his shirt.

His jaw tensed as he visibly fought for the right words. It was nerve-racking. Then, finally, he said, “Stay. Stay with me, even when it’s hard, even when it’s ugly. I know it’ll be an adjustment, but I’ll make it worth it.” He stroked his thumb over her cheek almost absently. “You don’t have to be super involved in my work. I just need you involved in my life, Abigail Fitzgerald, because I’ve fallen in love with you. So I’m asking, please, stay .”

Her vision blurred with the sudden rush of tears and Abigail gasped. “I…” She wanted to. She knew she did. But… “Am I allowed to stay?”

Ryōma brushed some of her tears away with a gentle sweep of his thumbs. “Yeah.”

She licked her lips and raised her hands until her fingers pressed into his jaw. “Then yes, I’ll stay. Because I love you, too, Ryōma.”