Page 150 of Fallen Rook

Best-case scenario, my plan would get me fired. Worst? Imprisoned.

Truth be told, I was pretty certain I would end up in prison for what I was about to do.

And I wouldn’t be the only one to bear the wrath of my actions. I was fucking Zeke over, too. There was no chance President Keaton would promote him to director of the FBI if anyone found out about the clusterfuck I was planning.

It would kill every career prospect both of us had ever had. And if this came out to the public, the FBI would need years to recover its reputation.

Because in order to save Enzo, I now had to save the entire Camorra.

The murderers, the thieves, the drug dealers, the abusers, the very filth I’d vowed to keep off the streets of New York.

Every single one of them, spared. Because of my weakness. Because of him.

“Has my informant arrived?” I strode into the office at seven thirty in the morning.

I’d been taking great pains to look and act like my normal self. I worked out, dressed well, had gotten a nice, expensive haircut, and kept up appearances. I’d even taken Zeke’s wife up on her offer and had dinner at their place yesterday. It was crucial to show the world business was as usual.

“Yes.” My secretary didn’t bother looking up from her screen, still typing. “He’s in the conference room. Your coffee and notes are on your desk.”

“Sully?”

“Not here yet.”

“Pity. I’ll have to start without him.”

I was counting on it, though. I’d arranged most of the meetings with my informant at hours when Sully was either asleep or passed out drunk over a sticky bar. After swiping my notepad and coffee from my desk on the way to the conference room, I readjusted my tie before opening the door. Then I walked inside.

“Hello, Slava.”

Slava sat at the far corner of the table, in a ball cap with the bill pushed low and an unassuming tracksuit. Each trip he’d made into New York put him at a monumental risk. We’d done our part by giving him a safe apartment, assigning a driver to take him to and from our offices, and cloaked him in complete anonymity. But if the Camorra found out, he’d be deader than dead. Still, he’d done it. His hatred for the Ferrantes was Mariana Trench–deep.

I was still trying to figure out why.

“Coffee?” I assumed the seat opposite to him, on the other side of the table.

He gestured toward a paper cup in front of him silently.

“Let’s pick up from where we left off last time.” I flipped my notepad open. Clicked the pen. “You were going to tell me why you’re executing our plan next week. Why you’re faking that drug shipment coming into New York to bait the Camorra. I’m interested in hearing all about it.”

“Why?” he drawled. “You’re an FBI agent, not my shrink. The fuck does it matter why I want to help the bureau nail the Ferrantes?”

My pen halted above the pad. I set it down. “You’re asking me to send my best men to the field, where there’ll be dozens of Bratva and Camorra members, heavily armed, and you don’t know why I’m questioning your motives?”

He ran his tongue along his top teeth before waving a flippant hand. “Fine. Let’s get it over with so we can move to the actual operation.”

“Why did you want to sabotage the engagement between your sister and the younger Ferrante brother so badly?” I asked blandly. I couldn’t bring myself to say Enzo’s name without my voice cracking. Everything in the room was recorded. His reactions and mine.

“He doesn’t deserve her.” Slava flicked a ball of lint from his tracksuit.

“Why doesn’t he deserve her?”

“Because he’s a damn faggot!”

“Can you repeat that?” I drawled dispassionately, scribbling on my notepad without lifting my gaze. Inside, my rage was as sharp as a knife, begging to slice him open.

“A faggot,” Slava repeated. “He fucks men. Or…men fuck him. And other shit like that. The first time I heard about it, through some homo lackey of mine with a profile on one of their…their dating sites,” he growled heatedly, “I couldn’t believe it myself. So I sent Konstantin to get me proof. Told him I’d pay him fifty grand if he came back to me with evidence.”

“Konstantin?” Again, my tone was jaded. Impersonal.