Special Agent | ✓

Twenty (III)

TWENTY (III)

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You never truly knew adrenaline until you were separated from the one person meant to protect you from the situation you currently found yourself in. Quinn realized that much as Ricci's guards led her away from the room they'd briefly been in, slipping through extravagant hallways and skulking in shadows. No guests lingered in this part of the Palazzo the gala was hosted in, and Quinn had spied nothing but more guards during their walk.

Well, walk's a bit of an understatement.

They were jostling her along like a crate. She didn't dare do else except follow, feeling the cold barrel of a weapon pointed against the back of her head. Her heart thrummed, hard, eyes flicking left and right as she pondered her situation.

They needed info from Ricci — or else all would be lost. However, not even Quinn's exceptionally logical mind could muster up a way of reaching her goal while keeping all of her brain matter inside of her skull, but she'd have to find a way to do so if she wanted to keep herself, the mission, Gavin — and, by extension, Kent — intact as they got out of this.

If you get out of this.

Quinn swallowed hard, shoving that thought aside. They passed another dark corner of the building, before Ricci and his contingent of guards shoved through a pair of frail wooden doors. Dust rose in plumes from the ground as they entered the room, Quinn suppressing a cough as she stumbled inside with the rest of her violent companions.

"There. We are alone, now," started Ricci, moving into the room. The rings on his hands glinted in the weak moonlight filtering in through the filthy windows. His eyes scoured the room, before they drilled into Quinn's face, "You seem to think it is urgent, this message you wish to deliver. Speak, Signorina."

Quinn swallowed, forced her fists to stop from shaking.

Okay, you are an analyst and not much of an ideal field agent, but you've been through worse. You're Quinn O'Reilly, and if anyone's making this smug Italian talk, it's you.

"I spoke to Signore Castiglione in order to warn him of the same things he wishes me to warn you of," Quinn started, reiterating what she'd said previously —

— before he'd jostled her away from Locke at gunpoint, that is.

"Do these dangers involve the business I share with Castiglione?" Ricci's eyes turned dark, sharp.

Quinn nodded, swallowed again as she felt the head of a gun lightly touch the back of her neck.

"They do. One very specific set of transactions."

Ricci's eyebrow lifted, "You know I favor confidentiality with my clients, Signora?"

"I am certain you are a man of your word, Ricci. So am I," Quinn held one palm up in the air, reaching with her other hand into her bra. She'd stuffed a note in there, which held the numbers she needed to grill Ricci about.

"In that manner," Quinn continued, holding the folded note between them, " — I am not someone who would wish to go elsewhere but where these numbers lead me."

"You already know I am the owner of these transactions. Why chase anything else?"

Quinn narrowed her eyes, squaring her shoulders, "Neither one of us is stupid, Ricci. I know your business is a front for transactions that don't clear the legal bar. Dirty money."

Ricci smiled, clasped his hands in front of his body.

"Have any proof? Or did you and the Signore rush in here, hoping I would comply?" Ricci's eyes slid across Quinn's figure as he scoffed. Quinn met his eyes, a low fire burning in the scalding look she tossed him.