EIGHTEEN
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Quinn couldn't hide her surprise at the looks of the building. She'd sidled along the edges of facades for the entire street on which it lay, shoulder brushing against worn brick and paint peeling off houses. One hand had firmly clutched the strap of her bag, anxious glances toward it to make sure she still had her gun. Something made the hairs on the back of her neck rise — something brushed along her spine, made unease prickle through her soul.
You can't back out now, O'Reilly. Do it for Kent. Do it for Cam.
Pushing forward, Quinn kept her eyes firmly plastered on the building in question. It was easily identified, as its house number hung from the outside in the form of large, bronze letter. They swung lightly in the breeze, announcing the address proudly for everyone passing by. Not that anyone was passing by, though — the street was largely deserted, save for Quinn.
Despite the meagre looks of the surroundings, the building itself kept her attention in its snare. It was weirdly polished, windows glossy, metal furnishings oiled. It look well-kept.
Say it. It looks operational. It looks like everything but a front.
Quinn moved to the door, let her hand rest on the door handle. She pressed down — it swung open. A lump lodged itself in her throat, one she forcefully shoved aside. She wasn't surprised — she'd suspected as much from the looks of the building.
Inside was a neatly furnished lobby. Brushed, white walls were adorned with tasteful (or tasteless, depending on how one viewed art) minimalistic posters, while green plants climbed out of clay pots in various corners. A silent AC hummed in the background, the indoor air retaining a comfortable chill, a welcome contrast from the otherwise sticky, venetian heat.
There was no one beyond the front desk. There was, however, a lone bell resting on the corner, for customers who wished to call on whoever the receptionist was here.
Quinn moved past the bell, ignoring it. She'd be an idiot if she thought that announcing her presence was a good idea — and she made her living on not being an idiot, so she knowingly sidestepped the entire front desk. There were no obvious security cameras trained at the front room, but Quinn knew better — they'd most likely be hidden, tucked away in the folds of furnishings, disguised in clever places.
Moving through the quiet lobby, Quinn aimed for an open doorway leading to the back of the building. She passed beneath it, cringed and slowed as the wood creaked beneath her. When nothing moved, she continued forward. A few steps beyond that, straight through a barren hallway, was a closed door.
She heard nothing but her own soft breathing, her hands whispering across the fabric of her bag as she dug down for her gun. Cold, unflinching metal touched her fingers, and some of her anxiety eased, allowing for breathing room.
Come on, Quinn.
Quinn stepped closer to the door, hands closing around the handle. Then she wrenched it open, found it swung inward. Stumbling inside, Quinn stopped right inside of the doorway. A wide-eyed, terrified man sat behind a large oak desk, eyes trained on her.
He mumbled something in Italian, to which Quinn cocked her head.
Should've taken those lessons in Italian, you bloody moron.
"Who are you?" repeated the man again, but in accented English. He straightened his tie, brushed down his hair. His throat cleared, and he repeated himself.
"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?"
"I am always in danger, Signorina. It is part of my job, which I assume you know or you would not be here, yes?" Quinn cocked her head as Castiglione spoke, " — I find it strange that I somehow have a new threat heading my way."
Quinn shifted an inch closer, saw how he swallowed hard, face blanching. He was scared, had grown increasingly terrified throughout their meeting, but kept a brave face. Quinn kept a cool, indifferent demeanour plastered on her face, kept her shoulders tense.
"You do. Two others have already fallen victim to it." He didn't budge, but Quinn took his silence as an invitation to continue speaking, " — one woman, found dead. Another forced to flee the country."
Not that Liza Jaeger had escaped the country — more like knowingly dropped off the map, but Signore Castiglione does not have to know that.
"And why should I believe you?"
"You don't have to," said Quinn, reaching into her bag. She procured two glossy photos — close ups of the fatal wounds on Special Agent Lorber, " — but you might believe these."
Stepping closer to the desk, Quinn placed them slowly in front of Castiglione.
"These are official documents. Yet, you say you are not police." Signore Castiglione frowned. Quinn saw his arm tense, hand inching closer to whatever weapon he had stashed behind his desk, "How do you have these, then?"
"I don't have to be police to know what the police does," said Quinn. She inched closer to her own gun, saw how Signore Castiglione's eyes skimmed over the photos. How they jumped between the spots of blood on Lorber's body.
Quinn hadn't chosen photos where Lorber's face was clearly visible — but rather ones clearly showing her wounds. The vicious intent behind them. The fatality of them. It'd reeled her to her core, seeing Lorber's body as they'd found it. She knew Signore Castiglione would be like her in that regard — the paper-pusher, unused to the violence caused by people much like those he knew.
"Do you have a family, Castiglione?"
His eyes jumped, studied Quinn's expressionless face.
"No." Castiglione's throat bobbed, a bead of sweat running down the side of his face, "No, I do not."
"I don't have much in the way of family," said Quinn, ignored the slicing pain of that admission, " — but I would imagine it would hurt to lose someone you love. It would hurt to watch them suffer, see them bleed on your watch."
Her mind jumped back to her father, ran down a track she was forcing herself to ignore.
Focus. Heaving a sigh, Quinn forced her shoulders to relax slightly as she met Castiglione's wide-eyed stare with a deadpan look.
"I imagine it would hurt even more knowing you could have done something about it."
"What do you want?" Castiglione bit the words out between clenched teeth, sweat pooling on either side of his face. Quinn could still hear the AC whirring in the back, felt the cool breeze stirring errant wisps of hair. It was not nearly hot enough in the room for him to sweat as he did.
But Signore Castiglione was nervous. Even if he was doubting her intentions, doubting her promises of said threat, he was not dumb enough to disregard them. She had slashed through the web of fake fronts, found out his hiding spot thanks to Lorber and Jaeger. He knew exactly how hard it was to track him down, and as Quinn had done it — tracked him down, found him, threatened him — there was most likely a certain truth to her words.
"I want the details of these transactions. The owners of these account numbers." Quinn procured a slip of paper from her bag, dropped them on the desk in front of him. Doing so, she slowly pulled the crime-scene photos away from Castiglione, saw his eyes track the glossy blood on the photograph.
"And this will remove the threat?"
"It would help us identify it," said Quinn. She stashed the photos in her bag, not once taking her eyes off Castiglione, " — and neutralize it."
Castiglione nodded, chair creaking, "I have worked long enough with these ... kinds of people to know what you speak of, Signorina. I can dig through what I have, but I cannot promise to find the owner. I do not deal with all of them personally. Some come through henchmen, some send many messengers — they are dangerous people, Signorina."
He flipped up the lid to a laptop, eyed Quinn over the rim of the screen.
"Are you dangerous, too, Sabina?"
Quinn smiled, felt the cold metal of the gun stashed in her purse.
"I have dangerous friends, Castiglione. That's what makes me a threat."
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a/n: happy new year, guys! 2020 will be a great year for all of us, i'm certain. besides, it's a frickin' cool number. expect more updates soon!
questions of the chapter:
1. will castiglione find the true owners?
2. is quinn truly dangerous?
3. what's going to happen next?
4. her phone buzzed in the middle of the convo with signore castiglione. hmm, who could it be?
xo, cleo