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  It was true. Lara did already know the answer to her question. When she’d accepted the job on the new task force, her file—everything on her and her time at the FBI—had been transferred to NYC. But, still, she had needed him to confirm it out loud. Or else she might have not opened up at all.

  “I saw Moretti today,” she started after a rush of an exhale left between her lips. “In prison, I mean. As a part of a case. Not in a dream or nightmare or whatever. I saw him. He was only a few feet away.”

  Dr. Oliviero’s brows pushed together. “I take it this is the first time you’ve seen him since—”

  “The trial,” she finished. “Yes. I never thought I’d see him again, truthfully, but...it was a necessary evil.”

  Lara shifted in her seat. She knew the good doctor didn’t miss the movement. He had an impressive and extensive resume of dealing with the mental side of health. He was also no stranger to body language.

  And Lara’s was screaming she was dancing through a part of her past she’d rather not tango with ever again.

  “And now you’re having a hard time shaking the visit,” he summarized.

  “Yeah.” Lara rubbed the side of her arm. She suddenly felt vulnerable. She hated it. Dr. Oliviero waited. “Moretti...” She paused trying to find the right words. “There are predators in this world. There always have been, and there always will be. People who do unimaginable things with little to no reason behind their actions, aside from the basic need to watch others suffer. I know this. During my FBI training and career I’ve been shown the most violent, senseless and heinous crimes committed by equally monstrous people. We’re told—and taught—to detach from it, to distance ourselves from the—the horror so we can seek out justice. To rid the world of the bad and to protect the rest. But...” The words she’d found became lost.

  “This case—Moretti—has gotten to you.”

  Lara nodded. She didn’t know what else to say.

  “Let’s talk about what seeing him triggers for you,” he continued. She readjusted herself again. Victoria’s stern order blared in her head. Though Lara didn’t like to open up about her past, her boss had been right. She needed to find a way to sort out her tumultuous emotions, and Dr. Oliviero was going to help show her how. “Your father was a powerful NYPD cop, a sergeant before he retired. Correct?” Lara felt herself nod, but it was a clipped, jerky movement. Her willingness to delve into her life quickly took a turn.

  “Yes. He passed away recently,” she said. Words cold even to her ears. “Alzheimer’s.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  Lara gave a small nod of acknowledgement while an onslaught of memories assaulted her. Among them, always accompanying thoughts of Bartholomew Grant, was a pain that stretched across Lara’s heart until sinking to the pit of her stomach. An image of the man wasn’t the cause.

  It was the memory of a woman that pulled at her heart strings.

  Anna Grant’s body, photographed crumpled on the floor, surfaced behind Lara’s eyes.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d rather not talk about my father,” Lara said into the quiet. “Can we focus on Moretti instead?”

  Dr. Oliviero interlaced his fingers. His dark eyes softened. There was no way he didn’t know her family’s past.

  “Sure,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “So, why don’t you tell me about Moretti? Or, should I said, his organization.”

  Lara shifted in her seat. “What do you mean?”

  “Recount your infiltration into the syndicate. Tell me the details that you remember clearly and, therefore, hold them more closely. Technically, we were supposed to do this when you resurfaced from undercover, but with the trial and your father’s passing, etc... I was giving you a bit of time.” When Lara didn’t say anything, he added on, “Relaying a story—a very challenging, emotionally and physically, story—to another person can be proven to be very telling. Not to mention, therapeutic. Seeing Moretti, a man who has become such an invasive part of your life, can trigger emotions and stress that you might not even realize are there, flowing beneath the surface. Walk us through the beginning, and let’s see how you feel once you’re done. Okay?”

  The beginning.

  Lara sat straighter in her seat.

  She’d told this story before—had to as part of the job—but still she hesitated. Her time undercover felt like a dream.

  One that had turned into a nightmare.

  The words came slowly at first.

  It wasn’t as if she’d never told the story before. She’d had to tell it many times over. However, now, when faced with the realization that her retelling might somehow betray herself, she found the clipped, rehearsed words she’d told her superiors didn’t want to come.

  It wasn’t that she was ashamed of what she’d done. In fact, she’d been told before that she should be proud. It wasn’t every day one undercover agent was able to orchestrate the downfall of an infamous crime leader like Moretti.

  Yet, how could she brag after what she’d done?

  “Moretti’s organization ran three things,” she started, building up to the memory she was supposed to recount. “Drugs, guns and humans. All three veins were expansive, strong and thriving. I originally requested I go undercover in the human trafficking side—I wanted to save as many as I could—but was told that’s why I couldn’t. I wasn’t there to save people in the short-term. I was supposed to find a way to get to Moretti. Cut the head of the snake from the body and save everyone in the long-term. Dealing directly with hard stuff like heroin and meth was also something everyone decided I would avoid. That left running guns. Smuggling ammo and weapons would put me in direct line with the top tier of the syndicate if I played my cards right. So, that’s what I did.”

  There was a man named Spike, and he was waiting for her inside the bar. It was a total dive and had more drunken customers outside on the sidewalks than in. All huddled together, talking loudly and smoking one last cigarette before they stumbled back to wherever they came from.

  She knew all of this because “Eve” had been coming to the bar for months. She recognized the people who frequented the joint just as quickly as she recognized the people who didn’t. Faces became familiar to her and vice versa. So when she saw a man with an aged fedora sitting at the edge of the bar, head bent low over a pint, she breathed a sigh of relief. Not only was he finally there, but he was sitting in her spot.

  “Hey, Shorty,” Eve greeted the bartender, leaning against the bar. Shorty, real name unknown, gave her an appraising look and a nod. She wasn’t wearing a low-cut blouse or a high-rise skirt but a skintight black shirt and form-fitting leather pants. Her body may have been covered, but still she caught attention from the locals as soon as she walked in. “Who’s the hat in the corner?” she followed up. “He’s in my seat.”

  Shorty paused his pouring to glance over to the man.

  “He was a local way before you,” he answered. “Though I haven’t seen him in a while.” He shrugged. His bar might have been a hotbed of criminals converging, but Shorty was clean among all the scum. He ran his business right, serving whoever had the cash to pay. “They call him Spike, if I remember right.”

  The man was called Spike and was nastier than the scabs grown on the inside of some of the patrons’ arms. Thin, tall and with pale blond hair that was perpetually greasy, Spike also had a twitch. Even in the dim light of the bar, Eve could see that. She supposed she’d form one, too, if her job entailed gun-running for the infamous Moretti.

  Then again, that’s exactly what her goal was.

  Eve ordered a beer on tap and pulled a pen from her bag. She took two of the paper coasters no one used and scribbled on the top corner of one when Shorty turned away. When her beer was ready, she took it and the coasters over to the bar stool next to Spike. She sat down with a twinge of excitement.

  “This seat taken?” she asked. His eyes, a dull blue, scanned her body, pausing on her more intimate areas before re
turning to her face. She met his stare with smile.

  “It is now,” he replied, perking right up.

  Spike had been profiled as a man who craved attention from beautiful women but had gotten turned down by so many that he’d grown a complex against them. He’d eat up the attention, fall over himself to please his target, but the moment something didn’t go his way, he’d resort to violence. Aside from drug charges on his record, he’d also had two nasty past assault charges.

  Eve sat on the bar stool and slid the unmarked coaster beneath her drink. The other remained in her hand.

  “I haven’t seen you around here before,” she started. “But Shorty says you’re a local? Must have been on vacation the past few months.”

  “You could say that.” His eyes narrowed. “I’ve never seen you here before. You’re no local.”

  Eve had been ready for his suspicion. It was well deserved, but he wouldn’t know that for a while.

  “I had to relocate recently,” she said, pausing to take a big swig of her beer. “Let’s just say my career took a turn, and now I’m looking for new opportunities.” She half shrugged. “I heard this was a good place to start.”

  Eve knew how Spike operated within the syndicate. He was low on the totem pole, a physical mover of product between transactions, but he knew the people who could connect her to the higher-ups. She also knew that Spike rarely stayed in one place long, only cycling back to his favorite bar between jobs. This might be her only shot at getting an introduction in the foreseeable future. Before he could reply, she put the other coaster on the bar top and slipped it over slowly, tapping the top corner with her index finger. Spike’s eyes widened as he took the symbol she’d drawn in. He put his glass over it.

  “And what kind of business are you in?” he asked, voice lowering. “In a place like this it can’t be anything good. Unless you’re a cop.” Even as he said the word, fear and anger moved across his expression. It was her turn to snort.

  “I’m definitely no cop,” she defended. “I’ve got the arrests to prove that.” She contorted her face into obvious resentment.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Apparently cops don’t appreciate unregistered guns.”

  Spike’s suspicion didn’t ebb, but his interest did grow.

  “So what? Now, outta all the bars in the city, you’re here talking to me?”

  She gave him a sly smile.

  “Let’s just say we have a mutual friend that said this bar has the best beer on tap on this side of the city.” She winked. Spike sat up straighter, his chest slightly puffing out.

  “Really? Did our mutual friend tell you what that is?” He pointed to the scribble on the coaster. The MM looked distorted, cut off by the bottom of his glass.

  “I didn’t need him to. I’ve known what that is for a while.” Spike’s eyebrow rose. “It’s a rumor,” she explained. “It’s a promise. It’s stability and power. It’s a career someone like me craves.” She dropped her volume. “It’s why I’ve been coming to this shithole bar for months. I have product, I have experience, and now I’m looking at you.”

  Spike appeared surprised, yet still intrigued.

  “And who the hell are you?”

  “Eve,” she said, outstretching her hand. “Now, let’s talk business.”

  And so Eve Johannsen was born.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “By now Spike probably has realized he shouldn’t have trusted me as much as he did,” Lara said to Dr. Oliviero. “But I think he liked the attention.”

  “The attention?”

  “I made sure to respect him. I was interested in what he had to say, and I let him know it. We met back at the bar a few times before he finally set up a meeting with someone who could get me in. All I had to do was pass the background check.”

  “Which, I assume, was very thorough.”

  Lara nodded. “Dismantling Moretti’s organization was a big thing for us. We had only the best working on my cover, creating a comprehensive, solid background. One that, even through back channels, would check out.” Another memory surfaced as she spoke. “But, still, I was nervous. The man in charge of vetting me had earned a reputation for being thorough.” She took a breath. “The last time I saw Spike was the first time I met Andrew.”

  “Tell me about that,” Dr. Oliviero said. He still didn’t have his notes out, but she suspected his memory was sharp. She wasn’t sure. Her attention was on the past.

  “It’ll be okay so long as you’ve been straight with me so far,” Spike said, a cigarette between his lips. They stood in the alley behind a dive bar not so different from the one where they’d first met. It was well past midnight, but the crowd inside was still buzzing. Their regular spot had changed at the request of the man who would help decide if she was in or not.

  “Like I said, if I was a cop I would have already turned you in,” she said with a sly smile. “And I definitely wouldn’t have bought that auto rifle from you.”

  Spike smirked around his cigarette

  “I ‘spose that’s true.”

  They shot the shit for a few more minutes before a car parked in front of the mouth of the alley. Eve’s body tensed. The gun in the back of her jeans burned her skin, ready to be used if necessary. She had no backup near. They hadn’t wanted to risk being detected.

  “That’s him,” Spike said. He threw his cigarette on the ground and twisted the heel of his shoe over it. “Good luck, Eve.” Spike walked away as the new man walked up.

  Eve’s eyes widened at the sight of him.

  He stopped a few feet away.

  “Eve Johannsen,” he greeted. No question in his tone. She pushed her shoulders back and nodded.

  “That’s me.”

  “My name’s Andrew Moore,” he said in introduction. “And I’m the judge and jury for what you’re trying to become a part of.”

  “So, does that mean I’m in?”

  “If you weren’t, I wouldn’t have come here and given you my name.” He smirked. “Your background check came back satisfactory. Get in the car. We need to talk.”

  Despite the situation, she felt a thrill of excitement. Eve was finally in. Now the real work would begin.

  “Andrew was Moretti’s third tier and had command over all arms operations,” Lara said, finished recounting her first exchange with the man. “From that moment on, he became my direct boss...as well as my mentor.”

  “You spent a lot of time with him.”

  She nodded.

  “Describe him to me.”

  The words paused on her tongue. She thought back with hesitation before beginning.

  “Handsome, in one word. Strong in another. He held himself with importance but never arrogance. Dark hair, dark eyes, mysterious. A trifecta that was only amplified by his charisma.” Lara balled her fists against her lap.

  “And how do you feel about him?”

  “It bothers me how attractive I find him still and—” she averted her gaze a moment “—how physically drawn to him I was. I know it sounds horrible, but he was so different from the others. He was kind and patient with me and always had my back.” Lara brought her fist up and slammed it against the desktop. “How is that possible? How is a man like him able to make me feel...” She let her words trail off. The flare of anger quickly doused. Dr. Oliviero was neither alarmed nor angry at the outburst. “How is a bastard capable of that?”

  Dr. Oliviero unlaced his fingers. He stretched over the desk and patted the top of her fisted hand.

  “I think that, once we explore that, you will find more peace about what happened during your time undercover.”

  * * *

  Exhausted.

  Lara couldn’t find a better word for what she felt standing in her apartment an hour later. The good doctor hadn’t pushed her when she’d said their session that day was done. He hadn’t tried to talk her into opening up another can of worms. The exercise of examining what seeing Moretti had triggered within her seemed like a bust. But, the
session had done its intended job. Lara was no longer riled up at visiting the head of the snake in prison. However, their talk had opened another wound. And it was time to try and heal it.

  Almost an hour later and Lara was standing in front of a small, brick-wrapped Cape Cod and trying her best to not feel like a child. Bartholomew Grant’s last home.

  It never got easier thinking about the man. Whenever she did, the image of Anna sprang up and blossomed. Normally a child’s thoughts of a mother weren’t synonymous with the father potentially being a murderer.

  Lara sighed, feet planted firmly on the sidewalk.

  She had spent the first years of her career poring through the case files of her mother’s murder and hadn’t found a thing. All of that hard work had been for nothing. That meant her mother’s killer was either buried beneath a tombstone Lara hadn’t visited or was possibly still out there, a free man or woman. Regardless, whatever answers Bartholomew had once known had died with him.

  Now all Lara had left of either parent was a few yards away, hiding behind walls covered in aged brick.

  Lara felt her feet filling with lead. She needed to go inside to do what she’d come to do. Since Bartholomew had gone into hospice care, the Cape Cod and all its things hadn’t been touched. It was Lara’s job to sort through it all and set everything right. If such a thing was possible.

  Yet she couldn’t bring herself to move.

  “Hey, girl!”

  Startled, Lara turned to see a woman in too-tall stilettos waving from down the street. It had been a while since she’d seen her unusual friend. Lara waved back.

  “Hey, Lola,” she greeted as the woman had made her way over. Along with her unrealistic shoes, she wore a skimpy outfit of a black bustier and a leather miniskirt. Her bleached blond hair was pulled up into a high ponytail, falling somewhere near the middle of her back. She was twenty-six and pretty. Two details that kept her career as a prostitute thriving.

  “Long time no see,” Lola said, stopping next to her. They both faced the house.