Page 3 of Corso DeLuca

“Rich or poor,” Teal adds, “I want this one by the book.”

I grind my teeth against the veiled insult directed at me. Most days, I fire back at the digs against my loyalty to the badge with a quick retort involving my ass and someone kissing it. But today, I hold my peace. Once we have Corso DeLuca in custody, I will clear my name and Greg’s legacy.

Brent chuckles. “Okay, boss.”

I smile at the obvious sarcasm. I know of Donaldson’s long history with fighting organized crime, so I’m not surprised he joined us for taking a DeLuca into custody. The bee busy buzzing in my brain is why I wasn’t briefed that he would be joining the team today. Instead, he was waiting for us at the front entrance. Another set of eyes on me, courtesy of the bureau. Thankfully, he parked his unmarked sedan around the corner. Unlike our team lead who’s a walking joke in custom-designed suits.

Vince Teal prefers to flaunt his government service pay grade by entertaining himself and the general public with grand displays of his flashy car and camera reel photos from his annual vacations abroad.

It’s probably a head game with me as the lone player, but the sense of danger hangs thick in the air. There’s no O’ De Toilette of slaughterhouse; however, everyone is too watchful, too assessing, too at the ready.

“Eyes open, people,” Teal whispers loud enough for our ears only.

Or so I thought. On closer inspection, I notice two women locked in an animated conversation open their handbags. One gentleman near the side exit stops short, lowering his suitcase to the ground. For the first time, I think we may need backup. Though no one has ventured forward to confront us, the threat of violence tingles over my skin. Brent must feel it too. The snick of the release snap on his gun’s holster reaches my ear. Some shit is about to go down. Subconsciously, I tense for gunfire. We need to get to Corso DeLuca and get the fuck out of here.

“Teal,” I whisper yell, “I have a weird feeling. Maybe we should wait…”

“Forget it, NuCalla. Your intuition put your partner in a pine box.”

The kick to the gut could’ve doubled me over. Feeling sorry for myself is never a solution. My mother taught me that lesson more than once. Do I have survivor’s guilt? Fuck no. Who wants to die? But somehow, all the blame for what happened that night has my face on the unwanted poster. I can tell by Teal’s rigid steps that he’s expecting me to open a can of whip ass. He’s right. I’m officially in ass kicking mode, but I won’t give him a reason to throw me off this case. So, I do what the fellas around the office do when he pushes the wrong switch.

“Fuck you, Vince, and the tricycle you peddled to the top.” Yeah, his daddy wore the blue and gold. The only way his showy ass climbed the ladder to team leader is with pop-pop’s help.

We’ve reached the hotel registration desk. Without prompting, I face a man who looks way too deadly to be handing out room keys and local discount coupon booklets.

“I’m Special Agent Jessie NuCalla. Get Corso DeLuca here, now.” With my trigger finger, I point to the spot in front of me. His dark eyes, hidden under thick brows track me, Vince, and Brent all at once. I’m impressed. Well, I would be if he wasn’t associated with a criminal enterprise.

“No,” is his only response.

Again, I could be impressed. I’m going for pissed though. Teal clears his throat before stepping in front of me, bringing himself face-to-face with the mono-syllabled check-in clerk.

“Maybe you didn’t hear,” Vince added, leaning in close, his body language communicating authority his voice is lacking. I’m sure I spoke English, Teal. Meanwhile, Brent hasn’t moved. “Read the letters, pal. We’re FBI.”

The gatekeeper doesn’t take the bait. “Leave while you can.”

A sinister gleam enters thick browed eyes. An excitement at the possibility of bloodshed practically vibrates through his limbs. Powerful arms flex across a broad chest taunting us with, see, I don’t even need my hands to wreck some shit.

Teal seems to shrink in on himself, his lanky arms and legs wavering with an invisible breeze. Just when I think, this is it, gun-waving hardened thugs bent on burying every law enforcement officer in a shallow grave are about to storm the building, a double door to the first-floor night club is thrown wide open. Immediately, all three of us, Teal, Donaldson, and me reach for our weapons. I won’t go down without taking three or four of these fuckers with me.

A man as awe-inspiring as The Governor appears in a conspicuous arch near Club Al Di La. Warm tan skin and dark hair with streaks of silver at the temple give this well-dress male god a distinguished look. His tuxedo is an inky black, pristine in its cut, and it frames broad shoulders, sculpted pecs, and I know what has to be chiseled abs. The shirt and tie, close to the color of fresh blood from an open vein, conjures images of power, prestige, and danger. His impressive style is rivaled by a wide grin aimed at the infant in his arms. The cooing baby giggling up at him does little to soften the hard edges of this man. As beautiful as he is in every detail, there’s something scary about him. Odd, but I’m not frightened.

No way could two chiseled gods be in this building. He has to be the one—Corso DeLuca.

The DeLuca’s, especially the ones lucky enough to reach a mature age are careful to conceal their identities. Under the cover of night with the help of private security, private transportation, and private flights they conduct their business dealings. From studying everything the bureau has on Corso, I’ve pieced together what I think he could look like at forty-eight. At the sight of the three of us, Mr. Gorgeous’ brows pinch together, but his focus fixes on me.

“Gabriel,” he says, authority wrapped in every syllable. “The wedding,” he prompts while his eyes never stray from mine.

So, the big man at the check-in desk is Gabriel. I make a mental note to search the case files for a mention. The DeLucas are smart. Oftentimes using a vast range of associates to run their businesses. Government agencies lack the funds and manpower to track more than three or four known associates for years at a time. Without saying more, Gabriel takes the baby from the stranger’s arms.

“Hey,” Teal calls to Gabriel, “we’re still talking.”

“No. We’re done,” Gabriel replies, disappearing into Club Al Di La’s.

Narrowing my eyes, I glare at the alpha male who relinquished the baby. “Who the hell are you, asshole?” though I already know the answer to the question.

A tick appears on his chiseled jaw with the dark goatee kissed with a touch of silver at the corners of his mouth. It heightens his dangerous masculine appeal. With the child away from his clutches, the cruelty this man is capable of is unmasked. Why do bad guys hit the lottery in the looks department? Instinct compels me to recoil—no, it’s urgent—to run far and fast away from this dark knight.

“You know who I am, Jessie. Gregorio told you to come to me. You’re seven months late.”