"Sit down, Rizzi."

Gio glared at Agent Curtis with all the fury he could manage after two straight days without sleep. "Go fuck yourself," he growled, smothering a cough. It took everything in him not to snap at the agent for using the wrong name.

Rizzi. His name was Giovanni Rizzi. Geoffrey Tanner was dead and buried.

The fact that he'd been in the interview room for six hours and hadn't had so much as a bathroom break wasn't doing anything to help him put the now useless cover identity out of his mind. His clothes were ripped and covered in dirt, and his throat had been dry since Monday.

Curtis looked offensively fresh and well-rested, his golden locks and blue eyes right off an FBI recruitment poster.

"It's no skin off my back to write you up for insubordination," the agent said, leaning in his chair until he could prop himself against the two-way mirror.

Gio sat, gripping the edge of the table with his ragged nails until his fingers popped, to keep himself from knocking the damned chair out from under him.

Three days ago, he'd been celebrating his thirteenth month undercover with a bottle of Jack when Louis Fitzgerald, head of the Black Forest arms ring, had gotten on the phone and made the call Gio had been waiting for. He hadn't even taken the time to sober up before he'd stumbled off the property and woken his contact with a kicked-in door.

Sheila had been a good sport about it, only firing a warning shot. His hearing had already recovered.

Unfortunately, that meant he could hear every smug syllable as Curtis threw the newspaper down on the table with a satisfying crack. "Your intel was good."

The headline took up half the page. "Arms ring brought down by FBI, CIA in joint sting." There was an unsurprisingly photogenic picture of an alpha agent manhandling Fitzgerald into the back of a car in cuffs. It was the kind of thing the Bureau lived for; the tall, dark, muscular man was the epitome of the macho image they liked to cultivate.

He could feel his pulse pounding in his palms as the steel tabletop bit into them hard enough to cut off feeling in his fingers. His knuckles ached to bust Curtis's face open.

There was a reason agents like that didn't do undercover work. Not only did they consider it beneath them, but they'd get caught before they hit the ground. Nobody suspected a mouthy Italian omega to be a Fed.

Curtis smiled, his teeth white and even. It only made Gio more aware of the sour fuzz that was growing across his own crooked smile. "The sting," he recited, barely glancing at the article, "was the result of hundreds of hours of planning and a year of undercover work. The lead agent on the case, Raphael Michaels, personally oversaw the capture of the head of the arms ring—"

"That was my goddamned case," Gio said, his voice cracking. "You dragged me off my op, stuffed me in an interview room, and gave the bust to Michaels?" The pounding in his temples swelled, and he had to remind himself again. Rizzi. His name was Rizzi.

"Director's orders." Curtis sat up and grabbed a file that had been hidden by the paper, flipping through it. "You've got a new case to work. Besides, you know Michaels looks better in pictures."

Gio shot to his feet, rage tinting his vision red. He'd show this scocciament’ what happens when you mess with Geoff Tanner. There were places he knew, people who could make him disappear without a trace.

"Sit down, Rizzi," Curtis said not looking up.

Rizzi. Gio took a deep breath. He was Giovanni Rizzi, FBI. Tanner wasn't real. His small-time weapons empire was a figment of the imaginations of a lot of agents that put Hollywood to shame when it came to special effects. Giovanni Rizzi was a good agent. Too good.

Straight-backed and shaking with rage, Gio sat back down. He wouldn't give Curtis the pleasure of writing him up. "Regulations say that I'm to have a minimum of two months of down time between undercover missions. This was my third op in four years," he said, working to pronounce every syllable calmly and without Tanner's heavy southern drawl.

Crossing his arms, Curtis hummed thoughtfully. "Oh, this isn't an FBI thing. You're on loan to the Treasury." He flipped a few more pages idly. "Let's see where you're going undercover today, buddy," he said cheerfully and winked. "Maybe it'll be somewhere nice and warm, like Miami."

Gio clenched his teeth until his jaw ached. "I have spent two days getting out of Dodge and the last six hours without food or water. I need a piss and a shower, and if you don't cut the crap, I'm going to take care of one of those needs all over your $200 shoes."

"Touchy," he said, flipping the file closed. "No Miami for you, then. How about Chicago? I hope you packed a coat because it's damned cold in March."

Reaching out fast enough that Curtis startled and almost fell off his chair, Gio slammed his hand down on the papers. "Cut. The. Shit," he said, on his feet and leaning over the table, although he had no idea how he'd gotten there.

Curtis cleared his throat and glanced at the two-way glass.

Gio barely held back from rolling his eyes. It just figured that Curtis wouldn't have the balls to be there without backup. "What's the fucking job?" Gio asked softly, his raw throat making even that come out dark and menacing.

"Gangs," Curtis stammered. "Gangs and money." Straightening up on his chair, he adjusted his tie. He flipped the file open and tapped at a glossy picture held crookedly to the first page with a paperclip. "This is Hector Villalobos, head of the Wolves. The Wolves are a national gang into everything from drugs to extortion. They started out small time on the Texas border, bickering for territory with the Lions and the Kings all over the southwest. It kept them out of trouble for the most part.

"With the fall of the cartels in Mexico, our homegrown problems have expanded to fill the gaps. The Lions forced the Wolves out of the south earlier this year, and the Kings have completely taken over the west coast." He flipped to another page. "The Wolves were trying to consolidate their power in the midwest, but..." Curtis tapped a picture, this one glued dead center.

"Two months ago, Hector was publicly executed by one of his lieutenants, Tomas Perron. Ever since, it's been all-out war between three factions of the gang. Perron has slowly accumulated the biggest chunk of the pie."

Gio stared at the glossy photos of scenes so saturated with blood that it was hard to tell where the red bandanas ended. "And you want me," he said, gesturing to his fair, olive skin and hazel eyes, "to go undercover with a Mexican gang? I don't even speak Spanish."

"Seriously?" Curtis asked, his eyebrows twitching. He rolled his eyes. "As funny as that would be, no. There's a rumor going around that Old Hector took all the information about the Wolves' money laundering accounts to his grave. Now all the gangs are scrambling not only for territory, but for access to thirty years of drug money." Shuffling through the paperwork, he pulled a stack of sheets with graphs and percentages all over them. "The eggheads over at the Treasury's Data Analysis group have narrowed it down to five possible companies, and you're the lucky asshole who drew..."

He paused to glance at the file. "Bainbridge and Parker, serving the Chicago area's money management needs since 1935."

"You're fucking kidding me," Gio drawled, grabbing the papers. "Ha ha, Curtis. Very funny." He took a breath, shaking off the accent creeping into his voice. "What's the real job?" Scanning the pages, he clenched the stack so hard that it crumpled.

"That's the job." Leaning back again, Curtis grinned like a kid on Christmas. "No bullshit."

The papers slowly drooped until they were resting in his lap, and Gio stared at them. "This is a scut job. This is the kind of shit we give to the guys in the White Collar Division who fail their range qualifications. This is six months of sitting around on your ass doing nothing because Data Analysis says that there's less than a fifteen percent chance that this is the place."

Curtis hummed, his smile stretching wide enough to show the silver crown on one of his back teeth. "Yup. Aren't you a lucky bastard?"

Gio shot to his feet. "This is a load of crap." He slammed out of the room, gratified to see the hallway clear in a scramble of suited bodies. "Giovanni Rizzi is a goddamned Distinguished Service winner," he grumbled under his breath as he bypassed the elevator to take the stairs two at a time. "Gio... I have the third highest range scores in the division. This is a fucking joke, and I'm reporting it as harassment."

The Assistant Director's waiting room was empty, and his secretary, Paolo, didn't look surprised to see Gio.

"He's not in," Paolo said reluctantly. His dark complexion blended in with the rich mahogany surroundings until he almost appeared to be an extension of the office itself.

Behind the half-closed blinds, Gio could see AD Martin standing on his portable putting green, lining up a shot. "I'll wait."

Paolo squirmed under the weight of Gio's glare, the back of his neck going red. "Let me try again, okay?" He picked up his phone with a sympathetic smile. "Agent Rizzi is here to see you, sir."

Martin scored a hole in one, doing a victory dance before striding over to his desk.

"Yes, sir," Paolo said after a moment. "That's what you said, sir, but... Yes, the Chicago op. Bainbridge Parker, sir." His shoulders slumped. "I'll let him know, sir." Turning slowly to Gio, Paolo shook his head. "Assistant Director Martin isn't in."

"This has to be a joke," Gio said, crossing his arms as Paolo put down the phone and slipped out of his chair.

"It's not," the other omega said quietly. "I watched him sign off on the order. He spouted the usual bullshit about needing his best man on the case, but..." He glanced to the side. "They're announcing promotions next week, and he wants you out of the way." Pouring a cup of water, Paolo pressed it into Gio's hands. "You were passed over again."

"Son of a bitch." Gio sipped the water slowly. It was cold and soothing, and it sapped the anger right out of him. All he was left with was utter exhaustion and the lingering knowledge that he stank. "I hate this fucking job."

"Liar," Paolo said, taking the glass. "If that were true, you'd have taken that offer from Homeland Security."

"Still might." It was an empty threat, and they both knew it. "Fine. I'll take the damned six months, but I'm filing a complaint with the office in DC. This is the sixth time that I've been passed over for this promotion, and the excuses get thinner every year. What was it this time? Demerits for dress code violations? Missing my annual review because I was under-fucking-cover?"

Paolo's lips twitched in a barely there smile. "You don't want to know."

"You're probably right. Fuck. I guess I'm going to Chicago. They have good pizza, at least." He scrubbed a hand through his hair, grimacing at the greasy slide. "First, though, I'm gonna have a shower and sleep for two days straight. Right after I take a piss."

The elevator dinged. "Hey, Rizzi. Or should I say Giorgio Romano?"

Groaning, Gio glared over his shoulder at Curtis. "Fuck off."

"No can do, pally boy. You need to get going. Your flight leaves in three hours." He smiled toothily. "Oh, and you start work tomorrow at six." Tossing an envelope at Gio's head, he propped his shoulder against the dark wood paneling.

Only Paolo's arm hooked through Gio's held him back from pounding the agent's face in right then and there. As it was, Gio dragged the poor man halfway across the room before he realized what he was doing. "Fuck you and your perfect teeth."

"Aw," Curtis said, batting his lashes. "You think my teeth are perfect? I'm flattered, but you're not my type. Paolo on the other hand... What do you say, sweetheart? You wanna take a walk around the garage? I've got a real sweet ride."

"I changed my mind," Paolo muttered, walking stiffly back to his desk. "I'll hold him still for you."

Curtis just laughed as he headed for the elevator. "Clock's ticking, Mr. Romano. See you in Chicago."