by Gemma Hart
All Rights Reserved
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Table of Content
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Chapter Twenty Three
Chapter Twenty Four
Chapter Twenty Five
Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Seven
Chapter Twenty Eight
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Chapter One
Halle
“So, Agent Margot, do you understand what we’re expecting?” Agent Hadfield crossed his arms as he raised a brow at me, waiting for my answer.
I took in a slow breath.
In front of me were several open files spread across the large conference desk. Each one held photos of high ranking members of the notorious Desmond Mafia.
And right in the center was the photo of Roy Desmond, the head of the Desmond Family. His face was a broad square shape with hooded eyes and a grizzly gray beard. He looked like the kind of man who could kick a dying dog if it was in his way.
Next to Roy’s file was another photo.
Marco Desmond.
Roy’s son and heir apparent to the Desmond Mafia. I only let my gaze briefly flick over the photo.
Even through the still photo, Marco Desmond seemed to burn like a glowing ember. His chiseled face and dark, penetrating eyes heated up the room in an instant. In the photo, his eyes carried a bored expression of a jaguar at rest. He might look bored and at repose but that didn’t mean he couldn’t leap on you in an instant, his jaws at your throat.
The idea of Marco Desmond’s jaws anywhere near my throat made my cheeks immediately burn. I coughed, hoping no one had noticed.
Agent Hadfield and Agent Truman, the lead agents for this case, only looked at me with an impatient glance.
“I understand,” I said.
Agent Truman, who had been leaning against the wall, pushed forward and pulled Marco Desmond’s file and slid it closer to me.
“This is a high priority case with a lot of things at stake here. We close this and the country will have a field day. The Bureau will be considered heroes,” he said.
I saw a glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes at the word ‘heroes.’ It seemed odd that an FBI agent would be so eager to be recognized for his work. The whole idea behind the Bureau was covert operations. No one here worked with the expectation of becoming a hero. They did the work because they knew it was the right thing to do.
At least, that's what I had thought when I had joined Bureau.
My father had been an FBI agent for twenty-two years and I knew from the age of five that that was what I wanted to do with my life as well. I wanted to become just like my dad—a person who understood justice and fought to preserve it.
After dad died, I had joined the Bureau. It broke my heart to know that he hadn’t lived to see me become an agent. But after a few weeks, I realized, maybe that was for the best.
I had always heard about the FBI through my father’s eyes. He had painted it as a place where all things good and just were protected. He had made it sound like a beacon of morality and justice.
But after just a few weeks within the Bureau, I realized this wasn’t necessarily true. Although we were well past the 1950s, sexism was still very much active within the FBI.
Wanting to emulate my dad, I immediately tried to test to become a field operative. I wanted to be an agent who got her hands dirty. It made my heart race thinking about how proud I would make my dad if I could become a field agent like him.
But almost immediately, I was hit with the first of many roadblocks. The agent in charge of training field operatives had immediately dismissed me before I could even apply.
“What department are you in now?” he had asked.
“Fraudulent accounting,” I replied. “But that was just because my recruiter had seen my degree in mathematics and had pushed me to test for the accounting exam. He told me once I was in the Bureau, I could apply to another department if I wanted.”
The agent shook his head, snickering. “Stay in accounting then, sweetheart,” he said, giving me a smarmy look from head to toe. Although I was wearing a blazer over my buttoned up blouse, I suddenly felt naked under his leering gaze. “Field op is too messy for a numbers gal like you.”
If I had been offended then, the offense quickly dissipated as I realized that agent’s attitude was the prevailing attitude amongst most of the department heads who also happened to all be men.
I knew they weren’t just dismissing me because I was a woman. I knew there were female field agents. I had seen some.
They were dismissing me because of how I looked.
Of the very few female field agents that existed, I noticed a trend. They were all quite tall with closely cropped or bobbed hair. They had larger physiques that leaned towards the more muscular side. And they all had a very serious, almost grim, quality to their personalities. I had yet to meet one female field agent who smiled.
This was very different from the various male field agents that abounded. There were short, tall, fat, thin agents all around. There were men with full heads of hair and others who were shiny and bald. They called it, advantageous covert operatives. That meant it was good having people of different physical looks out on the field because it meant it would be harder to identify them as agents.
Yet this standard did not extend towards women.
I was not as tall as the female agents. And I was curvier than them as well. Most of my blouses were tailored so the buttons wouldn’t strain across my breasts. And with my blonde hair that I kept long but always professionally tied back or up in a bun, I looked too different.
I snorted. Not different.
Weak.
They wouldn’t say it to my face but I knew that’s what they were thinking. I looked too weak to be a field agent.
So after weeks of trying to speak with every department head in the field operative sector, I gave up and relegated myself to following up on criminal fraudulent accounting of big businesses or money laundering cases.
So it was more than a little surprising when a few days ago Agent Hadfield had called me into his office, asking me if I was still interested in field operative work.
I had stared in shock. “Yes,” I finally managed to say. My tongue finally unstuck and I said quickly, “Yes, I’m very interested, sir.”
Agent Hadfield nodded. He didn’t look particularly thrilled about my interest nor did he look completely disinterested. He nodded as if just confirming a detail.
“Fine then,” he said. “Meet me in conference room B Monday morning at ten.”
And now here I was, being presented with a highly classified operation that was so insanely risky, I could never have fathomed it in my wildest dreams.
“You want me to go undercover into the Desmond Mafia,” I said slowly as the agents pushed the open files towards me.
Agent Hadfield nodded.
“There’s
intel that they’ve recently been in contact with the Juarez Family from Mexico. They seem to be in talks in trading weapons and drugs, expanding their territories exponentially. If they’re talks are successful, they could possibly become the largest crime syndicate in the world,” Agent Truman explained.
“But this also means it’s a large opportunity for us,” Agent Hadfield said, his eyes sparked with the heat of the chase. His lips twisted up in a smile as if he was a cat playing with a mouse.
I slowly nodded, seeing the picture coming together. “If you can get information on where and when the families will meet to finalize, you can bust both of them together, potentially wiping out both families,” I said, looking over the files.
There was a beat of silence.
I looked up and saw Agent Hadfield and Agent Truman staring at me in dumbfounded silence. With a little irritation, I realized they had never expected a blonde like me to put the pieces together. Having been robbed of their big punchline, Agent Truman tapped irritably on Marco Desmond’s photo.
“This is your target,” he said. “Marco Desmond is heir apparent to the Desmond Family and yet hardly anyone has any information on this fucker.” Agent Truman brushed a finger against his salt and pepper mustache, clearly annoyed at the elusiveness of Marco. “But he’s Roy’s right hand man—that much we know. You’d never get close enough to Roy Desmond to find out any information. But Marco,” Agent Truman nodded, as if pleased with his plan. “Marco is your shot.”
I looked at the photo again, feeling a swift flutter of butterflies against my stomach as I looked into those dark, hooded eyes.
“And how will I get close enough to Marco to find any information?” I asked. I could hardly just walk up to the man. The Desmond Family was notoriously careful in covering up their tracks. That was how they had remained so successful in the criminal world.
Agent Hadfield and Agent Truman exchanged covert looks. I could see the look of satisfied humor that passed between them. My spine stiffened. I could tell whatever they were about to say, I was not going to like it.
“We’ve got you an in for the Desmond Family,” Agent Hadfield said smoothly while his eyes hinted at something more. “But obviously, since Marco is our target, we need you to use your…instincts in finding a way to talk with him.”
“Instincts?” I echoed.
Agent Truman nodded, giving a suggestive shrug. “You know, womanly instincts,” he said, barely being able to hold back a snicker. “Marco is a notorious womanizer. I assume it wouldn’t be too out of reach for you to catch his eye.”
So that was why they wanted me on the case. They didn't want me for my skills, experience, or even eagerness to train as a field operative.
They wanted me for my looks. For my body.
I stared at the two men. “You want me to seduce the son of the most powerful crime family in possibly all of the Western world,” I said, staring at them.
Agent Hadfield and Truman didn’t even hesitate.
“Yes,” they answered in unison.
“Will you do it?” Agent Truman asked, looking over his mustache at me.
I stared at the photo of the jaguar personified.
This was my first chance at a field mission. Sure, they didn't pick me because of my qualifications or potential as a field agent but that didn’t mean that I couldn’t show them all of those things while working this case.
Sexism might’ve gotten me the case but I’ll show them that my brains and skills are what will accomplish it.
I nodded. “Yes,” I said, breathing out slowly. “I will.”
Chapter Two
Marco
The hazy, smoky room is filled with the grunts of men and the soft, alluring laughter of women.
I looked at my cards before I threw in my chips. The man next to me looks at his cards, hesitating on whether he wanted to match my raise.
“Oh, come on, you pussy!” Roy said in his grizzly jabbing tone. He hacked a laugh before taking another long draw on his cigar. “Put your money where your mouth is!”
A woman with brassy red hair and wide red lips hung around Roy’s neck, laughing as if Roy had just said the cleverest thing in the world. I used to feel anger at the sight—my father sitting at the head of the table, lording over this supposedly casual poker night when, in fact, it was forced, while he had one woman or another dangling off of him.
The women were all the same too. Any woman that stood around the Desmond Mafia were looking for some kind of notoriety and a definite kind of pay out. This redhead must have been Roy’s flavor of the month judging by the sparkling diamond earrings that peeked through her hair.
Yeah, this used to annoy the shit out of me.
But now I could care less. Any kind of real emotion had been burned out of me long ago and now all I could see was an aging man filled anger and paranoia. Paranoia comes naturally to those who rise to supreme power. And that’s what Roy Desmond had. Although situated in Los Angeles, the man ruled pretty much the entire country through his extensive crime syndicate.
And no one knew better than me how extensive that web really was. I was born into this life of danger and crime. This rough and toxic air of criminality was the first breath I took. And, I thought as I watched Roy chew disgustingly on his soggy cigar, it’ll probably end up being the last thing I breathe as well.
Most men thought that as the son of the powerful Roy Desmond, I lived the life of a prince.
It couldn’t be further from the truth.
Roy Desmond had not wanted children. My mother, another one of his random flavors of the month, had also not wanted children. But once she had gotten pregnant, the idea of a son a legacy took root in Roy’s head and he essentially forced my mother from terminating the pregnancy.
She had agreed to not have an abortion as long as after she gave birth, she would be given ten million dollars and never have to see me again. Last I heard, she was living in a Rio de Janeiro, enjoying the life of a queen.
Roy had then been my only parent and guardian though neither word suited him. He had made sure he raised a son worthy of the Desmond name.
“You aren’t born with shit,” he used to say to me growing up. “You aren’t a Desmond until I say you’re a Desmond. And until then, you’re just some whore’s bastard son that I’m keeping clothed and fed. So you shut the fuck up and learn your role.”
According to him, the Desmond name had to be earned. And if I wanted to earn it, I had to show him I was tougher than any other son of a bitch that walked through the Desmond Mafia doors.
From as soon as I could walk, I never went a day without having my body mottled with bruises. Roy wanted to make sure his son knew that if you’re pushed and beaten, you need push and beat back harder.
And before I was eighteen, I was thrown in with the lower rank and file men of the Desmond Mafia. Going under one of soon to be many aliases, I was introduced as some new guy. I got the same rough hazing and dangerous grunt work as everyone else.
Some of the higher ranking men in the Family had worried about throwing the heir to the Desmond Mafia onto the streets.
“What if he gets busted?” one of the men would ask. “What if he gets picked up?”
Roy would snort and then turn his cold gaze on whoever had dared to question his judgment. “Then we just got rid of some deadweight,” he would reply in a steely voice. “Ain’t no real son of mine going to be stupid enough to get caught doing some bum work. If he can’t do that, then he could never run the Family.”
“Aww shit!” Roy cried out loudly as he threw his cards down with disgust after seeing my straight.
I carefully stacked my winnings. I was thousands of dollars ahead of everyone else at the table, including Roy. Roy Desmond only played high stakes poker. The minimum buy in started at $10,000.
After stacking up the chips, I leaned back in my seat and stretched. I could feel Roy’s eyes on me.
“One lucky son of a bitch tonight, aren’t you?” he said,
his voice slipping a few octaves.
I knew what that tone usually meant. It meant he was very near flying into one of his rages.
I kept it a point to avoid as many of these poker gatherings as possible. Roy was too volatile these days to be in tight quarters with. But as his son, I couldn’t avoid it altogether.
I looked at the older man. It was funny. It was thanks to him that I had ended up becoming the Family’s best hitman. After rising up in the ranks, I began being trusted with harder and more sensitive assignments. I was an expert in hand to hand and could take out a man either from thirty feet away or three inches away.
Not only had I learned from the best but I eventually exceeded the best. Soon any sensitive jobs were only entrusted into my care. Everyone knew I did the quickest and best work of any hit. A good part of the reason why the Desmond Mafia was the largest and most successful crime family was because of all the other competitors I had personally taken out.
