Page 15 of Deal with the Devil
Let him disregard me.
It’s not as if I’m being totally honest myself. The second we’re off the phone, I’m rushing through my apartment. Already dressed in a hoodie and jeans, I pass by the console table in my living room and scoop up my purse on my way to the door.
It’s barely even eight in the morning, yet downtown DC is bustling. From the moment I leave my doorstep, I’m inundated by the loud rush of traffic and people going about their mornings. In hopes of some semblance of anonymity, I pop on my sunglasses and walk among them, heading straight for the subway.
There’s always the chance someone might notice me. Word could get back to Joe at the station.
Questions could arise. Why would I be on the streets if I called in sick, claiming I was running a temperature?
But it’s a risk I’m going to have to take.
Anonymous and I have agreed to meet at a quasi-public location. For days I’ve dragged my feet on what to do—with Jayla and Baron serving as an angel and devil on my shoulders—but the gala was the final driving force.
If men like Joe Germanotta and Chuck Whitmore want to diminish my career and the work I’ve done, then I’m going to prove them wrong.
I’m going to show them I was right. I’m going to blow the damn lid off the corruption and expose the hold organized crime families have on major cities across the country.
And I’m going to start with the murder of someone that was ruled a suicide.
It’s enough to keep my mind off the other thing that happened last night—the run-in I had with Rafael at the gala, our first time seeing each other in months. Twelve hours later, I’ve refused to let my mind linger on any of it. Not a tense look,not a longing touch, not the charged air that lingered between us.
Thinking about it for even a second is dangerous. It’s enough to unravel me and send me back into my post-breakup spiral.
I have to focus on what’s important: my investigation into criminals like Il Diavolo, the Belluccis, and the Tucos.
I ride the subway to the Smithsonian station and get off among the crowd of travelers. Because the anonymous person claims they’re coming from out of town, they demanded we meet at a neutral middle ground.
The Enid A. Haupt Botanical Garden ended up being the location we settled on. Something public, but not too public. Private, but not so private that either of us are in danger.
I arrive first. Few people are around.
The area stretches on for miles, carefully manicured in picturesque fashion. Mosaic paths lead through flower beds and shady alcoves. At the center stands what’s known as the Moongate Garden, a circular stone portal that’s said to bring good fortune.
I check the time on my phone more than once and find I have several texts. None from Anonymous. Mom and Dad have messaged me—drunk texting again—about some nudist beach they’re visiting on their cruise. I have another message from Jayla asking me about the password to the Wi-Fi, and then a text from Baron wishing me luck on today’s endeavor.
He’s the only one who knows about Anonymous and what I’m doing here at the botanical garden.
I’m in the middle of replying when I sense someone approaching. It’s a woman who’s had the same idea that I’ve had—she’s in a hoodie and gigantic sunglasses as she approaches, throwing cautious glances left and right.
She can’t be older than twenty, maybe twenty-one.
As she approaches, I’m half tempted to ask if she should be on a university campus somewhere.
But she seems to recognize me as she stops a few feet away and then asks if I’ve come alone.
“What does it look like?” I ask.
“It looks like one thing,” she snaps. “But it could be something else. There’s a lot of trees. A lot of bushes. How do I know somebody’s not hiding?”
“You’re just going to have to take that chance.Youreached out tome, remember?”
“You’re the only one who cares. The only one who bothered to ask questions!”
“Slow down,” I say calmly. I take a page out of her book and glance around us. We’re alone, with only a single tourist passing in the distance. I motion toward the stone bench nearby so we can sit and have a real talk. The girl hesitates, then follows my lead. “You obviously know who I am. Time for me to know a little about you. Tell me who you are.”
She goes rigid beside me, her throat tight as she swallows. “I’m… I’m Ally. Uncle Ben’s niece. And apparently the only family member who gives a fuck about hissuicide.”
I almost let out a disbelieving laugh. Not because I find anything remotely amusing about Benjamin Sigler’s suicide. But because that was the story the authorities went with.
