Page 6 of Tattletale

I try to rise, but my knees buckle, and I stumble. Vesper catches me, holding me in place. “Linc is right, though. You don’t have to do this. There’s still time to have a normal life. We can take you home,” she says.

“What home?” I ask in a gruff whisper. Warm tears streak down my cheeks. “It’s all gone now.”

She looks torn, but finally, she says, “Then welcome to Operation PALADIN. There’s a lot to go over when you’re feeling well. But right now, we need to go.” She wraps my arm around her shoulders and helps me take a small step. Then another. One more. It’s easy to walk with her steadying me.

Slowly, we approach the doorway, inching toward my first taste of freedom in months. Linc follows behind. “You’ll need a new name,” he says. “Fiona O’Leary died in this room. What should we call you moving forward?”

I take another step and stumble, but Vesper doesn’t let me fall.

“Call me Cricket.”

ONE

LANCE

This is taking too long.And I don’t like Cricket’s text. I check my phone again and reread the last message she sent me.

C

I’m fine. I need more time. Trust me.

This time, I leave it on the bar, face up, so the screen will glow the minute there’s a new message. Using burners is usually reckless. Not to mention, service is spotty in this underground club with thick concrete walls. But we can’t use earpieces in here. Too conspicuous. Nobody will pay attention to a guy in a suit with a cell phone. Walk in here with an earpiece, and I’d get patted down.

I’m seated at the bar of LaRoe, the mafia’s favorite privatestrip club—but who are we kidding? It’s a sex club. From what we were told, there’s nothing particularly gruesome here. The women are of age, and seemingly all eager.

The escorts aren’t why PALADIN is here tonight. That’s not what we do. Maybe when we were working for the FBI, but it’s been months since that fizzled. Now, we’re free agents again, and Vesper’s not interested in enforcing politics. Let thesewomen make a living how they please. As long as they aren’t being kidnapped, tortured, or killed, this is none of our business.

We’re only here tonight for Giovanni Rossi.Poor sap.

Right now, the Rossi family mostly keeps to themselves. Yes, the government is aware of the mass weaponry and drugs they are smuggling into the country. But they operate within their own network. The murders are between competing crime families, equally guilty.Not our problem.As long as civilians are safe, the crime lords putting each other in the ground is just natural selection. Survival of the fittest, so to speak. Gio had the good sense to keep his dealings far away from the public, until he got a little stupid…

They wanted more ships. More control over the docks. But instead of putting a bullet through his enemies’ heads, he decided to strike up an alliance with the Colombo and Conti families. Now, that’s a big problem. Those three forces combined could easily overrun New York City’s law enforcement.

Ergo… Now, it’s PALADIN’s problem.Cricket and I were sent here to keep the sheep…sheep.

Somebody needed to go, and their potential new business partners needed to think there was an unforgivable betrayal. We flipped a coin.Sorry, Gio.Tonight, you die.

Gio Rossi’s men will think that Conti arranged an assassination. They’ll wage a war against the Conti family and wipe them out, hopefully whittling down their own numbers in the process. Colombo, who has the smallest impact in this seedy underworld, will remain in power and can take over whatever is left of the Rossi family. As much as I’d like to take credit for such a clever plan, this was Vesper’s genius.

She sees mob bosses and mafia heads as puzzle pieces. Driven by an innate desire to accomplish their mission, never really seeing the whole picture.Easily manipulated.

This job was cut and dry. Very simple… Until Cricket disappeared into a back room that’s been locked for twenty minutes too long. She told me to wait, but it’d only take seconds for a situation to go from under control to wildly awry. I fight the urge to barge back there, because if I interrupt, I could blow her cover, and it could cost her life. I have to trust she can handle herself.

Still, I reach for my phone to check for the umpteenth time when a dainty hand on my shoulder sends a little jolt down my spine. A small, brunette woman slides right next to me on a barstool placed far too close.

“Do you have an appointment?” she asks, trilling her fingers against the bar, mere inches from my hand. I turn to look right into a pair of big, starling, bright green gems. There’s something familiar about her eyes… I’ve seen them before, I think. Her dark brown hair is in soft waves, long enough to touch her belly button. She’s stunning, really. Exactly the type of woman I’d usually take home…

Except lately, I’ve had a little problem.

Okay, fine. Big problem.Horrendously huge, disastrous fucking problem. I mean that literally—I’m having afuckingproblem.

“No appointment. I’m just here to drink,” I say with a clipped smile.

“You look kind of lost.” She holds her hand out. “Do you know how this place works?”

“I can imagine,” I answer, shaking her hand. But we don’t exchange names.

“What do you fancy?” She swivels in her chair, and her long, sparkling red dress drapes over the stool legs. It’s an elegant dress, except the slit is so high on one side I can easily see her G-string. I turn my head, following where she’s gesturing. She points to a woman nestled in a private booth that lookssimilar to a clam shell. I can’t really see what’s going on, but she’s obviously beautiful, blond, and aggressively flirting with the man whose back is turned to us. “Creseda looks like a sweetheart, but I heard she likes the red room. Her endurance”—the brunette pumps her brows—“is impressive.”

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