Freddie Bianchi and Juliette Dupont are polar opposites.
She's hot, he's cold. She makes jokes, he takes them to heart. He's only an inch taller than her, and she makes fun of him ever chance she gets.
He calls her a dumb blonde, and albeit she's he...
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TRIGGER WARNING: MENTION OF R*PE
The room was stuffy and smelled like mold a little. I flicked my lighter and held onto the butt of the cigarette with my other hand. I wasn't allowed to smoke in here, but no one would tell me otherwise.
I noticed a smudge on my leather shoe and that pissed me off more than Jonathan being late. I reached into the inside of my suit jacket and took my black handkerchief from the pocket. I put my legs up on the table and put the cigarette between my lips as I reached for my shoe and rubbed the smudge off.
Just as I did, the metal door was thrown open and the blonde man walked in with a very annoying hop in his step.
"What's got you so chipper?" I asked him, and he took the seat in front of me and shrugged. "Nothin'. Anyways, Elise is back,"
I blew out a circle of smoke. "Good for her. What's the job?"
Jonathan rolled his green eyes at me, "Why does there have to be a job? I just can't call my buddy in to have a little chat?" He puffed out smoke from his electronic cigarette.
"You can. But we're not buddies. And I don't like you. So, what's the job? I have places to be, lives to disrupt."
Jonathan huffed out a laugh between the smoke. He tossed a yellow folder in my direction and stood from his chair. I shuffled my legs so I was leaning further back in my chair. He put his hands in his pockets and stared out the large windows.
I opened the file after tipping my cigarette in the ashtray.
The picture showed a man in his late fifties. He was grey and was snarling at the camera like a true villain. His information told me he was five foot nine and a full blood Russian. His name was Lukoff Libanov, and he was in the United States because he was fucking trafficking women and young girls.
"Give me the details in one of your pretty little emails." I said and put the folder under my arm, killed the cigarette and tipped my hat to the black haired woman at the door.
She opened it for me with a wide smile. I stalked down the hallway of the CIA building, ignoring the many attempts of the younger agents as they tried to talk to me. I gave the folder to my assistant, Meredith and told her to forward the information to me in email.
I had Vitterio on speed dial.
"Vitterio," He answered.
"You know a Lukoff Libanov? Russian, grey, fuckin' ugly?"
There was a pause before I heard papers ruffling, "Yeah, got some D dealings with Alfonso a few years back. Why? What's the trouble?"
"He's trafficking women and girls. Telling you because I might need reinforcements for this one." I heard a sigh and knew it was because he wanted to say no. I got in my car and started it, turning onto the road with one hand and beelining for my next appointment.
