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MOLLY
Fluorescent lights in the federal building hum, a constant buzz that drills into my skull, making everything feel slightly off-kilter. My mother used to say I was born with a low tolerance for chaos, but the truth is I just like control, control means safety, and safety is a luxury I learned to manufacture for myself.
I’ve been here for fourteen hours straight. The Borsellini financial records multiply instead of shrinking no matter how many pages I review.
My coffee went cold an hour ago, but I take another sip anyway, grimacing as the bitter sludge coats my tongue. The RICO case against Giovanni Borsellini and his organization represents eighteen months of my life, and we’re three weeks away from trial. Every transaction, every coded conversation, every witness statement has to be perfect.
I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knots from fourteen hours building a case to bring down the most dangerous crime family on the East Coast. Outside the twenty-third floor window, downtown DC sparkles in the darkness. Most of the city’s honest citizens long since went home with their families. But I’ve never been most people.
My phone buzzes. My sister, Louisa, asking if I’m still alive. I text back “Barely” and return to the records. Alessio Borsellini, Giovanni’s son and apparent heir to the family business, has been sloppy with his digital footprint. Young and arrogant, the kind of man who thinks a threat and a sneer can solve any problem in a world of federal surveillance. Even on paper, he has a way of getting under my skin.
He’s about to learn otherwise.
An elevator dings somewhere down the hallway, but I don’t look up. Night security making rounds, probably. Or another prosecutor working impossible hours to build an impossible case against impossible odds.
I’m reaching for my highlighter when I hear the first gunshot.
The sound echoes through the building, transmitted up through steel and concrete with brutal clarity. I freeze, yellow marker halfway to the page, my brain struggling to process what I’ve just heard. Car backfiring, maybe. Construction work. Anything other than what my gut knows it was.
The second shot removes all doubt.
My heart hammers against my ribs as I push back from my desk, papers scattering. The smart thing would be to call security, to stay in this locked office twenty-three floors above whatever’s happening out there and to mind my own business.
I snatch my phone and rush to the window, pressing my face against the cold glass. From this angle, I can see the entrance ramp and the first level of parking in the building garage. Most of the spaces are empty at this hour, just a few scattered vehicles belonging to building security and the handful of government employees insane enough to work past midnight.
A black SUV idles near the elevator bank, its engine running, exhaust visible in the chilly night air. No license plates are clear from this distance though. Three figures stand in a tight circle around a body on the concrete floor.
A body that isn’t moving.
My hands shake as I fumble with my phone, pulling up the camera and zooming in as far as the lens will allow. My prosecutor instincts kick in. Evidence first, emergency calls second. Without proof, it’s just another he-said-she-said. The image is grainy, but I can make out enough details to know I’m witnessing something I shouldn’t be. Something that could get me killed.
The tallest figure turns slightly, and even through the pixelated zoom, I recognize the profile immediately. Alessio Borsellini. The same face I’ve been staring at in surveillance photos for months, the same arrogant tilt of his head that comes through in every intercepted phone call.
He’s holding a gun.
Alessio has made eliminating witnesses an art form, and I’ve spent too many months studying his methods to ignore what’s happening below.
As I watch, frozen in horror and fascination, he leans down and says something to the person on the ground. I can’t hear the words, but I can see his lips moving. Then he straightens, raises the weapon, and fires twice more into the prone figure.
The body jerks once and goes still.
My breath comes out in a harsh gasp that fogs the window. I should look away, should call 911, should do anything other than stand here recording a murder. But some sick fascination keeps me pressed against the glass, watching as Alessio hands the gun to one of his companions and pulls out his phone.
Making a call. Reporting completion of the job, probably. Crossing another name off his list.
That’s when he looks up.
Something in his posture changes. He’s looking up, scanning the building methodically. My blood turns cold. Twenty-three floors down, through tinted glass and shadow. It’s impossible, Itell myself. He can’t see me from that distance, can’t know I’m watching. But Alessio Borsellini didn’t survive in his family’s business by ignoring his instincts.
He says something sharp to his companions, pointing up toward my building. Both men follow his gaze, and I catch a glimpse of their faces in the parking garage’s fluorescent lighting.
I know those faces. Tony Ricci and Sean Walsh, both with official records dating back a decade, both with specialties in making people disappear.
My phone feels slippery in suddenly sweaty palms as I stumble backward from the window. They can’t possibly know which floor I’m on, and can’t know which office. The building has hundreds of windows and dozens of floors. I could be anyone. I’m not the only one with their light still on. Hopefully.
But the rational part of my brain, the part that’s studied organized crime for years, knows better. They’ll figure it out. Men like Alessio don’t leave loose ends, and a federal prosecutor with eighteen months of evidence against his family definitely qualifies as a loose end.
