The office felt suddenly claustrophobic, as if the walls themselves leaned in a fraction, eavesdropping on my every thought. The city’s distant sirens faded beneath the weight of decisions piling up on my shoulders. I rolled my chair back and stood, my knees brushing battered drawers heavy with secret files. Out in the reception, the clock ticked on, indifferent to the dread that now pressed against my ribs.
I crossed to the window—rainwater streaked across the glass, distorting the neon outside into sickly bruises of color. Somewhere beyond the puddled pavement, Agent Miller’s people would already be converging. The FBI moved faster than the shadows. They would comb through my records soon enough. The knock on my door would be a matter of hours, not days.
Behind a false panel in the bookshelf, Jacob Woodville sat slouched on a battered leather chair, hands trembling. His eyes—flat, gray, and haunted—met mine. For a moment, I saw the flicker of the boy he’d once been, before he became a name whispered by cops and killers alike. "Did they call?" he rasped, his voice raw from an evening of hiding and panic.
I nodded. "The Bureau. They know you’re here. Or close enough. It’s only a matter of time."
Jacob’s jaw twitched. He wrapped his arms around himself, like a man chilled by something far colder than the rain. "If Corleone’s people get me before the feds do, I’m dead."
"If the feds get you first, you’ll wish you were," I muttered, not kindly. The words hung in the air, heavy between us. I felt the slippery slope beneath my feet. Protecting Jacob wasn’t just a legal risk—it was a moral abyss.
A sudden crash echoed from the alley behind the building. Both our heads whipped toward the sound. My heart hammered. Was it the FBI? Or Corleone’s men? Or just the city, reminding us it never truly sleeps?
I reached for the pistol hidden in my desk drawer, my fingers brushing the cold steel. The weight in my hand steadied me. "Stay here," I said, though I doubted Jacob would listen. "Don’t make a sound."
He shivered, face pale. "If this goes south—"
"It already has," I snapped, but my voice was softer than I intended. I eased toward the hallway, shoes silent on the hardwood. The door to the back stairs was ajar, a thin slash of orange streetlight painting the floor. There—movement. A shadow slid along the wall, too deliberate to be accidental.
A figure stepped into view: tall, rain-soaked, features obscured by the brim of a hat. For a heartbeat, neither of us spoke. Then I recognized her. Marlene Corleone. Not the Don’s muscle, but his daughter—the one with ice for veins, and eyes sharp as broken glass. She smiled, a feline twist to her lips. "Evening, Mr. Stamp. Looking for someone?"
She held something behind her back. Her gaze slid over my shoulder. "Funny thing about secrets. They rarely stay locked up for long."
A floorboard creaked behind me—Jacob, stepping from the shadows, panic etched deep into his bones. Marlene’s smile grew. The triangle had closed. In the lingering silence, the city seemed to hold its breath.
I leveled the pistol. Marlene’s eyes never left mine, even as her free hand slipped into her coat. Whatever happened next would tear my world apart.