Special Agent | ✓

Eighteen

"I'm Sabina," Quinn lied. She wasn't stupid enough to give her real name, " — and I'm looking for the proprietor."

His eyes narrowed, shot to her bag, to the white-knuckled grip she held on its strap. Intelligence gleamed in his dark eyes, something dark shadowing his face as he leaned back, met her gaze without moving an inch. Quinn swore she could almost see him reclining further in his chair, the worn fabric creaking in response.

"Tell me why, Sabina ... why would you bring a weapon to a bank meeting?"

Quinn's eyes hardened. Stay strong.

"For the same reason a bank proprietor hides behind multiple front accounts, I suppose."

Quinn smiled. It was dark.

Gavin would be proud. She shrugged that thought off, stuffed it in a box far, far away in her mind.

The man in question sighed, rubbed at the bridge of his nose. There were two seats in front of his desk, both looking worn and broken-in by the looks of the wrinkled leather.

"Sit down, Sabina. You're here to speak with me, no?"

"Depends," Quinn shifted her weight between her feet, " — are you the man behind the multiple shell banks scattered across Venice?"

His eyes gleamed again.

"Depends on who's asking. I handle business for a lot of important people. I have to take certain ... precautions."

"I'm not a law enforcement agent, if that's what you're asking." Quinn cocked her head.

I mean, I'm technically not an agent — so it's not really a lie. I'm just situational collateral.

"You expect me to trust the words of a woman who runs into my office with a gun? What else would you be carrying in that bag? You English." He shook his head, scoffed, "No manners."

He was a financial guy — a paper-pushed, a guy who fixed crooked numbers or moved money around. He was unlikely to a be a threat, and if he had any significant security he would've called it in at once. Quinn's eyes grazed his semi-tense form. Yes, he seemed worried over her presence, but not deathly afraid. He could have a gun stuffed in one of his drawers for all she knew, though, so she was not budging an inch of the harsh grip she had on her bag.

He had not been expecting company, that was for sure. Quinn needed to make the most of her time, having cornered the ghost who could lead them to the mystery behind Kent's disappearance.

"I'm not here to hurt you, Signore ... ?"

"Signore Castiglione." He tipped his head Quinn's way, " — let us say that, shall we? It is as true as Sabina."

Quinn smiled, felt her grip on her bag turning white-knuckled. At that moment, watching the man in front of her — she knew just which buttons to press to get them the information they needed. Quinn O'Reilly was an analyst, and she'd analyzed the bloody hell out of Signore Castiglione.

"I have sought you, Signore Castiglione —" Quinn tilted her head, closed the door behind her, " — because you are in danger."

His eyes shuttered, one hand disappearing beneath his desk. Quinn's eyes jumped to the tension in his arm.

So you do have a gun there, huh?

"I have come to warn you of that danger."

His face slackened, though his thick eyebrow remained furrowed, "Why? What do you gain?"

"I don't gain anything, unless you cooperate with me," said Quinn. Her phone buzzed in her purse, but she disregarded it, " — now, do you want to hear why and how you might be in danger?"