Coming to a fork at the end of the hall, I slowed. I was so distracted with my predicament and this man behind me that when he said, “Right,” I went left.

“Your other right.” I couldn’t miss the annoyed edge in his tone, like I was an airhead not worth his time.

My cheeks went hot with frustration, and words tumbled from my mouth, like they often did. “It would be nice to know where I’m going ahead of time, stronzo.”

“I didn’t realize you needed time to process a simple direction,” he responded, and then that deep, dark timbre came to the surface. “Call me an asshole again, Russo, and I promise, you won’t like it.”

The bite of his words touched my back, and just then, I hated the man a little for knowing Italian.

I stepped into the lobby, the front doors within view. I longed to be on the other side, but in all honesty, I would rather stay here than go anywhere with him.

The expected fed in the ill-fitting suit was supposed to try to gently coax the Cosa Nostra’s secrets out of me, which, at the worst, would include a too-highly-placed hand on my thigh, but he’d never physically hurt a woman. I swallowed, my eyes following the man I’d gotten instead as he walked to the front counter. Large and unyielding. Cold, and most likely unresponsive to any female wiles.

What tactics did he use while interrogating? Waterboarding? Electrocution? Was that even a thing?

Apprehension twisted in my stomach.

Badge, after badge, after badge blurred in glints of gold and silver before my eyes, and it was making me feel a little sick.

I walked further into the room and stopped beside the fed.

“Why am I not handcuffed?” I asked, watching two officers escort a shackled prisoner out the front doors.

He tapped a finger on the counter in a rhythm of three—tap, tap, tap—and side-eyed me, his stare filling with a trace of dry amusement. “Did you want to be?” His words were laced with deep insinuation and intimacy, and I suddenly knew two things: He was an asshole, and he had handcuffed a woman in bed.

My heart rate quickened from his unexpected response, and, to hide it, I feigned a bored expression. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m married.”

“So I can see, with that rock on your finger.”

I glanced at my ring mechanically, and, for some silly reason, felt miffed that he held no concern his prisoner wasn’t restrained. I could totally be a threat to him and the public.

“I could run, you know,” I said, planning to do no such thing.

“Try it.”

It was a dare and a warning.

A cold shiver erupted at the base of my spine. “Would you feel good about yourself? Catching a girl half your size?”

“Yes.”

There wasn’t an ounce of doubt in his reply.

“See, that is the problem with you feds. You love to throw your authority around.”

“Weight,” he corrected dryly.

“What?”

“The saying is to throw your weight around.”

I crossed my arms and took in the busy lobby. My eyes narrowed. I swore every woman in the vicinity had slowed their movements to watch him. A middle-aged officer old enough to be his mother stared while she pushed a clipboard toward him from the other side of the counter.

He signed the papers and then handed them back to the non-blinking officer. I bet women did wonders for his ego every day.

A wave of unease pressed down on my chest as someone set my faux-fur coat and purse on the counter.

Electrocution can’t be a thing.

“Put your coat on,” he ordered.

I paused to grit my teeth because I already had one arm in the sleeve.

He grabbed my sequin crossbody handbag from the counter and eyed the faux peacock feathers like they might carry malaria. I’d made the purse myself, and it was beautiful. I snatched it from his grasp, slipped it on, and headed to the front door.

Stopping abruptly, I turned and waltzed back up to the counter, taking my heels off as I went. “Can you make sure my cellmate—goes by Cherry—gets these?”

The officer watched me with a blank expression.

I returned it.

She peeked over the counter, at my bare feet and white-painted toes, and then straightened, her starched uniform rustling. “It’s been snowing for the last hour.”

I blinked.

“You want to give an opioid-addicted prostitute”—she tilted the shoe to look inside—“Jimmy Choos?”

I brightened. “Yes, please.”

She rolled her eyes. “Sure thing.”

“Great,” I exclaimed. “Thank you!”

Turning around, my gaze met a cold one, which I was sure could frost a lesser woman. He nodded curtly toward the exit.

I sighed. “Okay, Officer, but only because you asked nicely.”

“Agent,” he corrected.

“Agent what?” I pushed the door open. Snow dusted the parking lot, glittering beneath the four-globe lamp posts. The December air grabbed my bare legs with bitter fingers, the cold fighting to pull me into its embrace.

He observed the scene over my head, eyes narrowing as he looked at my bare feet. “Allister.”

“Which car is yours, Agent Allister?”

“Silver Mercedes on the curb.”

I braced myself, and said, “Do you think you could unlock it?”

Before he could respond, I was running to his car, the cold biting into my feet and his dry stare burning a hole into my back.

He didn’t unlock it.

I hopped from one foot to the other, pulling on the passenger door handle while he walked toward me, not the least bit in a hurry.

“Unlock the door,” I said, my breath misting in the air.

“Stop pulling on the handle.”

Whoops.

The door unlocked, and I slid into the seat, rubbing my feet on the carpet for warmth.

His car smelled like leather and him. I was sure he wore custom-made cologne to match the suit, but it was worth the money. It was a nice smell, and even made my mind a little hazy until I blinked the feeling away.

He sat in the driver’s seat and shut the door, and I ignored the way his presence threatened to swallow me whole.

We left the precinct in silence—a tense yet almost comfortable silence.

Digging in my purse, I found a piece of bubblegum. The crinkle of the wrapper filled the car. His eyes remained on the road, but he gave his head the most subtle shake, conveying just how ridiculous he thought I was.

He was late to the party.

I popped the gum in my mouth and swept a gaze over the car’s immaculate interior. Not a single receipt. Beverage. Speck of dust. Either he’d just killed a man and was trying to cover his tracks, or the fed had some OCD tendencies.

I always was a bit too curious.

I crushed the wrapper in my hand and moved to drop it in his cup holder. The gaze he shot me was deadly.

Looked like it was the latter.

I dropped the wrapper in the recesses of my purse.

Crossing my legs, I blew a bubble.

Popped it.

The silence grew so deafening I reached for the radio, but, once again, the look he gave me changed my mind. I sighed and sat back in my seat.

“Tell me how long you’ve been married.”

My eyes narrowed on the windshield in front of me. This man didn’t even ask questions—he just told you to tell him what he wanted to know. However, the quiet gave too much room for thought, and I responded, “A year.”