Page 22 of Perfect Vengeance

“That’s where you’re wrong.” He frowned, distracted as blinking beacons on the RFK-Triborough Bridge glinted off Gina’s hair. It wasn’t plain brown as he’d originally thought. Red highlights shimmered in the thick waves that swirled around her face and brushed the tops of her shoulders. “And you don’t really have a choice.”

“No, that’s where you’re wrong.” She parked her fists on her hips, stretching that already tight-as-sin black suit even more across her full breasts. “I always have a choice.” The pissed-off glare she shot him was hot enough to laser his cast in half.

“News flash, babe.” He intentionally invaded her personal space again, near enough to breathe in the same vanilla-sugar scent he’d noticed when they’d been jammed in the closet tighter than a box of ammunition. “No matter how well-intentioned your motives are for stealing from the Falzones, you just landed your butt in the middle of a major criminal investigation and screwed it up royally. There’s no way you won’t get indicted.” He couldn’t contain the hint of anger in his tone at how much rectal irritation she’d caused him. “Unless you agree to work off the charges—all the charges—by cooperating.”

“All the charges?” She took a deep breath, again stretching her suit until he was sure the fabric would split at the seams. The way it molded to every shapely curve of her lithe body it could have been tattooed on. “How many are there exactly?”

“Let’s see.” He walked to the end of the sofa. This time, he was the one who needed space. As much distance as he could get between himself and this woman whose assets he couldn’t seem to stop cataloging.

He held up his hand, counting off on his fingers. “Assault on a federal agent, leaving the scene of an accident, obstructing a federal investigation, breaking and entering, burglary, and conspiracy. That’s the short list.”

“Burglary?” Her voice rose and her chocolate-brown eyes widened even more. “Why do you care if I steal from a bunch of thieving mobsters who probably stole that money from someone else, or got it by some other illegal means?”

“I don’t.” In fact, he applauded her for it. Officially, he could never tell her that.

“Then what’s the problem?” She held open her arms in question.

“The problem is, every time you and your friends rip off the Falzones, they quit talking.”

“I don’t understand. Italians never stop talking.” As if to emphasize her point, she began motioning with her hands. “It’s a genetically foregone conclusion. Even when their mouths are shut, Italians keep talking with their hands.”

He crossed his arms. “Like you’re doing now?”

“Yes, like—” She bit her lower lip.

A blood-red warning flag waved in the back of Jack’s mind. What slip had she been about to make? And there was something vaguely familiar about her. Not that they’d ever met before. He’d have to have been run over by a tank and gotten total amnesia to forget a woman like her. No, it was more that she reminded him of someone else. He couldn’t put his finger on who that was.

“Now, maybe you’ll let me finish.” He ground his teeth, fighting to take a breath that didn’t have Gina’s distracting scent stamped all over it. “In the last six months⁠—”

“And what do you mean I obstructed a federal investigation?” Challenge burned in her eyes. “How could my stealing have obstructed anything?”

“Let. Me. Finish.” If he had some duct tape for that pretty mouth of hers, he could get this done and be out of her apartment before she drove him nuts.

“Okay, okay.” She held up her hands in surrender.

More hand gestures. He’d have to run a thorough background on one Gina Perot, cat burglar-at-large. Her name might sound French, but there could be some thick Italian blood running through her veins, and with it, hidden ties to the Falzones or some other mob family.

“If you repeat anything I’m about to tell you—to anyone,” he continued, “the offer I’m about to make you goes down the toilet, and you’ll spend at least the next decade in jail. Capiche?” He waited for her to nod. “In the last six months, I’ve planted listening devices in key mob locations. You and your friends have hit four of them. Do you know what happens when a mobster’s crib is broken into and he gets ripped off?”

Gina opened her mouth, but he held up his hand to silence her, which, miraculously, worked. “He abandons that location and I get nothing. I was about to break into Rocco’s again tonight when I saw you sneaking out. Any bug I planted would have been worthless. Even when you rip off mob hangouts where I don’t have a bug, they still get real cautious about what they say to anyone, anywhere.”

Begging another question that had been bothering him. “You sure know a lot about who the key players are and where they keep their money. Just where are you getting your intel?”

She looked away and, before turning back, cleared her throat. “You were at Rocco’s trying to plant a bug?”

“Yeah. Trying to.” Now enough red flags to decorate a used-car dealership whipped back and forth in Jack’s brain. The woman was exhibiting classic physical and verbal evasive maneuvers to avoid his question. “Until you got in the way. Like tonight.”

“Until I got in the way. Let’s be clear on this. You,” she said, pointing a slim finger at him before pointing it at her chest, and adding, “got in my way.”

“No kidding.” He held up his broken wrist. “Is this what you do to anyone who gets in your way? Run them down and leave them unconscious in the street?”

“I’m sorry. It was an accident. We would never deliberately hurt anyone. We called 911. I don’t know what else I can say or do to apologize.”

“I do.” He sat on the rolled arm of the sofa. “I need a bug installed in a location that, thanks to you”—he glanced at his cast—“I can’t access. I’m officially on the disabled list and can’t do it alone.”

“Can’t you get some of your FBI friends to help you?”

He shook his head. “Unavailable.”