Page 43 of A New Days Don

“Mila,” Richard Vicek snaps from the elevated hall that circles around the bullpen.

Slowly, my gaze shifts over to him, his arms crossed in front of his chest—someone’s cranky this morning.

“Yes?” I raise one of my eyebrows as I place my finger under the name I had left off on before he had interrupted me.

Massimo may have sent several boxes full of detailed records of employees and clientele, but I have highlighted several names that have either had records or are under our surveillance for suspicious behaviour. Most of the names are politicians or upper-class citizens, so they are harder to convict when their money pays for the best lawyers and can sway judges. If we are going to nail any of them, we need airtight evidence that can’t be sloughed off with fancy legal jargon.

“My office.” Richard turns on his heel. His hands clasp behind his back as he slowly prowls down the hallway. Richard Vicek doesn’t have to verify or watch to see if I will follow. He knows I don’t have a choice. He is my superior, and unless I want to find myself jobless, I will do exactly as he says.

My jaw clenches painfully tight as I begrudgingly stand from my desk. My heels click along the tiled floor. Nobody else has arrived at work yet—it's only Richard, Gerardo, and I. I’m surprised he’s even in this early. I usually catch him waltzing in with his cocky smile around midday.

I don’t bother knocking as I enter his space, though the look he throws at me tells me he expected me to. It takes everything in me not to physically roll my eyes at his idiocy.

“Come in,” he says through his gritted teeth, while I stand before his desk.

I don’t bother sitting. It would be pointless. Unless he has something to show or review with me, these meetings last less than five minutes. And if I have questions? No, I don’t.

“You have been suspended from any work that takes place out of the station for the next three weeks–” The way Vicek looks at me makes me feel as though this is a part of whatever vendetta he has against me. He looks pleased, his cocky demeanour emanates from him like sour milk.

I try to cut him off, “Wh–”

But he continues, “That means no going out on patrol, no interviews, no busts–”

Once again, I try to get a word in, but he cuts me off, continuing his pre-orchestrated lines.

“You will work from the office and will take part in administrative duties. Do I make myself clear?”

“No, you don’t. Why would I be suspended?” I place my hands on my hips. Richard’s gaze drops to them before snapping back to mine. His glare is so sharp it could kill a man if it were a tangible entity.

“Last week, you left Lucas on his own, and your cruiser was left unattended. Some riffraff busted in, damaging the vehicle. Lucky for you, there wasn’t anything to steal. You could be worse off. You’re lucky I wasn’t in until now, or your suspension would have begun sooner.” Vicek snaps, and I flinch. Something in his tone sets the thrumming panic in my veins singing loudly, making me retreat toward the door.

“You realize I am the most capable officer to be helping you with this case. Why would you kick me off of it?” I narrow my eyes, trying desperately to keep my calm.

Richard taps his finger on the desk, his eyes scanning me from head to toe, leaving a trail of uncomfortable goosebumps in his wake, but I don’t move.

“Clearly, you can’t be trusted. You are a flake at best. But I know your skillset is useful, so you will remain on the case from the office.” Vicek pauses, his hazel gaze sharpening, “Where did you go off to that night? I gave you strict orders to stay on that street.”

I stare, blinking a few times as I recall the events of that night. I should tell him about the redhead, but something deep inside me screams to keep it under wraps. So instead, I go with the lie that makes me look incapable and weak, “I panicked. It was late. Lucas had disappeared, and I ran home.”

I keep my head held high as Vicek’s nose crinkles with disgust, “Leave your gun. Get out of my office.”

I growl at my monitor in frustration. There is nothing. Nada. Zilch.

There are no files, no records, no calls or notes left to suggest that there was a man out there raping people, street workers, from before these last four months, when their bodies started popping up.

The clock above the glass door separating the lobby from the bullpen illuminates 4:52 in bright green digital numbers. I have been sitting here, shuffling through files and cross-referencing, for the last eight hours. This case has too many holes and not enough evidence or notes from our people. We have failed these women, and Vicek has me sitting out for the next three weeks.

I can’t sit here idly while women are vulnerable and at risk.

There is a knock on the glass door across from me. The fine hairs on the back of my neck rise in attention at the feeling of the person’s eyes burning a trail down my skin. I don’t even need to look up to verify who it is. Despite not seeing him for a week, my body knows the familiar feeling of being under his watchful eye.

When I do meet his dark eyes, the world around me slows, and the butterflies low in my belly slowly start to bat their stiff wings. Massimo is dressed in his signature black slacks and button up shirt, only this time he’s wearing white. The darker colours he wears make him look attractive, but this white, in contrast with his tanned olive skin, makes him look devastating. When my gaze reaches his thick, sinful lips, my breath hitches.

I must have been staring because he lifts a hand, crooking his finger at me in a way that makes heat pool between my thighs. The feeling makes me jump out of my chair, and I move as fast as I can to the door.

It’s only as I’m unlocking it that I notice the manila envelope in his other hand, “What are you doing here?”

I don’t know why I whispered that.