Phew, Franco’s gone again.

Can I risk it?

Tentatively, I glance around. I feel like a five-year-old girl about to steal the last cookie from the cookie jar.

Still no sight of the brothers. Of course that doesn’t mean they’re not about to pop right up in front of me. I mean Franco left saying something about being right back.

But it’s so fucking tempting. As if moved by some invisible force, my hand inches forward. I never shake on a job.

But, right now, my hand’s trembling.

Come on, Sofia, I rouse myself. You can do this.

I mean what fucking harm can come to me?

Briefly I close my eyes and then, like the Nike motto, I just do it.

I make myself another cup of coffee.

The machine they call the beast is practically begging me to use it. As soon as I turn it on, I’m bathing in the strong scent of coffee, and I close my eyes.

I breathe in and out as slowly as I can muster. For some reason, my heart’s beating a little faster than normal.

Get a grip, I command myself and watch the thick black liquid trickle into my cup. Holy shit.

I can see why they’re obsessed with this thing. It does make awesome coffee.

With no particularly hurry, I bring the cup to my lips and revel in the velvet texture and bitter taste.

As I savor the hot drink, I look around the kitchen. Being the type of chick that does not spend much time in rooms like this one, I can’t say I’m overwhelmed, but I can appreciate it for its grandeur.

I’ve seen a cooking show here and there, I’ve seen the kitchens of four chef hat restaurants, and I vividly remember my own mother’s kitchen.

It was nothing like this.

For starters, this one was the size of a small two-bedroom house. The one in the home I grew up in was like the size of a bathroom in this mansion.

Mom didn’t have all these gadgets, pots, pans and knives. All she had was a stove, an oven, a couple of pots, one knife, and a whole lot of love.

She cooked with love—love for me, her daughter.

The memory has me choking up.

But as I stare at the different areas in this huge kitchen I couldn’t help shaking the feeling that whatever cooking goes on in here is also done with love, passion, and enthusiasm.

I’m just about to wander outside to see what else I could find when my gaze zeroes in on a piece of paper.

It’s lying all-alone, abandoned, forgotten on one of the marble top benches. Quickly, I glance around. I’m still alone.

Should I take a look at it? Of course I should. I’m here on an undercover assignment, not some tea party.

I need to get my fucking skates on to start working or else.

The Senator is not a nice man to deal with if he doesn’t get his way.

Slowly, looking left and right, I walk over to the paper. At first glance, it seems to only have random names on it.

The closer I look, the clearer the scribbles become.

It’s a handwritten note. Neat, proper, penmanship.

With a furrowed brow, I study the list.

At the top of it is the word ‘Panther.’

Then followed by:

Jaguar.

Eagles.

Rams.

Titans.

Cowboys.

And on and on the names go.

Beside each name are numbers and a sum of money.

Realization dawns on me the longer I look at it.

Of course.

Match-fixing.

The Monatello family is well known for its far-reaching influence and alleged match-fixing. So far no one has been able to get any cold, hard, evidence.

Until now.

Until this very fucking moment.

I nearly jump for joy before my heart plummets down into my little toe again.

What am I to do with this list? I can hardly hide it in my ever so tight and revealing crop top.

My skirt is also out of the question.

Darn. Darn. Darn.

Why am I so unprepared?

If my phone was working, I could take a photo and get it analyzed for precise data. I have no idea, off the top of my head, what the current ladder looks like, who is playing who and when.

Fuck.

Biting my bottom lip, I look around, frantically trying to come up with a plan.

This is such a fantastic find, with very little effort on my part. Okay, so I had to fuck all three of them the night before, but heck, it wasn’t that onerous.

Maybe I can hide it till I have a way of making a copy of it?

Somehow I’ll need to come back and take a photo or scan it. Either would be good. Copying it myself will be of no use whatsoever.

Experts these days would be able to precisely identify the type of paper this has been written on, what pen was used, and who has written it.

I spin on my heels. Where would you hide something in a kitchen?

No, wait, where would you hide something in a kitchen of humongous proportions?

My eyes fix on the drawers. Every kitchen has one—the bottom drawer where all kinds of crap goes into. The bottom drawer one forgets until the day one moves.

Were those footsteps?

Now my heart is racing in my chest faster than a race horse.

If I’m going to do it, I’ll need to act now.

Quickly, I grab the piece and shove it in the bottom drawer. It looks like any other kitchen drawer I’d seen, full of useless bits and pieces.

Hopefully, whoever has left he paper in the kitchen will not go looking for it anytime soon.

Before anyone could ask what I’m doing, I straighten up and gulp down the last of my coffee. Maybe I had just imagined that someone was coming?

“What the fuck?” I hear a voice behind me, and I nearly spit out the bit of coffee left in my mouth.

Busted.

“Sorry,” I mumble as I debate how to handle this.

I’m never caught off guard...until now. This is a fucking first for me.

Almost in slow motion, I turn around.

When my eyes look into Antonio’s, I feared the worst.

Frantically, I try and come up with an excuse for picking up the piece of paper and putting it in the drawer. But words failed me.