Page 11 of Retribution
The office is quite familiar for some reason, and it takes a moment to realize why. Chuckling under my breath, I decide that he must be a Harvey Specter fan. I loved that show. Floor-to-ceiling windows run along the length of two walls, showing enviable views of D.C. Deep brown leather sofas surround a coffee table, and a wall of mahogany shelves showcase signed basketballs and vinyl records. It’s like he hired an interior designer to base it off the popular program.
Personally, I prefer my own office. Working from the spectacular Jacob K. Javits skyscraper in Manhattan, it may only be an hour and a half flight away, but almost seems like a whole other country.
Just as I’m starting to get really bored—and wondering if the Director would fire me for touching his vinyls—the man himself comes into the room. In his late forties, he’s still a handsome man. His dark auburn hair, only lightly streaked with grey, shows off his Scottish heritage, his broad shoulders and trim waist hinting at time spent in the gym, working hard to keep himself fit.
Taking a seat, he raises an eyebrow at my Docs, silently scolding my temerity in placing my boots on his desk. Releasing a deep sigh, I remove them, crossing one leg over the other while I wait for him to speak.
He just stares at me for a moment, blue gaze clashing with my brown one, before he shakes his head, eyes running down the ripped jeans and faded t-shirt I’m wearing.
Do I resemble a respectable FBI agent in the least? Nope. Do I care? Nope.
Bringing his gaze back to mine, he states, “I wish to discuss your father.”
My hands curl into fists at this. My father. Vincenzo Leonardo Gianelli. Head of the Gianelli crime family, I’ve been working to take him down for years. He specializes in the skin trade and is responsible for an uncounted number of deaths and the disappearance of hundreds, if not thousands of young girls and women.
My mother amongst their number.
I took her maiden name years ago, not wanting to be associated with the piece of shit I unfortunately share DNA with.
Sitting up straighter, I stop acting like an asshole and drop the smirk I was previously wearing. “What about him?”
The Director eyes me warily, my quick change of mood probably making him wonder if I’m bipolar.
The jury is out on that one, folks.
“I know you’ve been working in the background to try to take him out, Daniella.”
“It’s Dutch,” I spit back at him with narrowed eyes. No one calls me Daniella.
His eyes flutter closed as he pinches his nose, a long-suffering sigh falling from his lips before they stretch into a hard line. “I would like to know if you are any further forward in your attempts at shutting down his organization,” he says with a firm tone.
“Not particularly. I’ve been squeezing some informants for info, casing out some possible locations for the auctions. Unfortunately, I keep coming up against brick walls.”
He shuffles some files around his desk, flicking bits of dirt from my boots off of a few of them.Oops.Pulling out one marked with a red tag, he hands it to me.
“I’m transferring you to the Flagstaff office,” he begins, as my eyes widen in horror at the thought.
“You—you’re what?” I nearly shout out, indignation evident in my tone. “Why the fuck am I being sent to the boondocks?”
His face goes an angry red at my disrespectful tone and his eyes narrow as he regards me with cold eyes. “First of all, I don’t appreciate your tone, Agent Buchanan. And don’t think I don’t know about Cruz Sandoval.”
Oh shit. I’m fucked.I lean back in the chair with a muttered apology, and he holds the glare for another moment, before snorting and shaking his head at me.
“We’ll be discussing that later,” he continues, waving a hand dismissively. “There’s been a spate of odd deaths in the Flagstaff area, and some chatter on the streets has come to our attention that there is a trafficking operation being run in the vicinity.”
Swinging my leg, I contemplate this. “You think my father has something to do with it?”
“That seems to be the consensus, yes. As I stated, there have been a number of suspicious deaths in the area. All men, all with ties in some manner to trafficking or pedophilia. It’s almost as if someone has made it their mission to take them out.”
“Good for them,” I mutter under my breath. But not quietly enough, it seems.
“Agent Buchanan!”
“Sorry,” I grumble, trying to look apologetic and most definitely failing. “So, I’m to work out of the Flagstaff office? For how long?”
Folding his hands on his desk, he leans forward, an earnest look on his face. “Until it’s solved. I’ll be informing the agent in charge, Donald Cooper, that you’re there for a temporary banishment. A punishment, if you will. You’ll be working undercover, as I suspect one or more of the agents to be working with the syndicate.”
My eyes fly wide with this news. This is unexpected. Although I hate the thought of working anywhere other than the city, if I can take down my father and a corrupt agent or two—well, that would certainly be career defining.
