You need to learn to control your temper, Michaela.  Her mother’s favorite reprimand, and usually warranted.  Maria Girabaldi just didn’t understand that people seemed to go out of their way just to piss Mickie off, though.  Like the two men in line behind her at the coffee shop, one a haughty moron and the other an insulting moron. Too bad asshole number one ducked, or she’d have gotten a twofer with her purse and taught them both a well-deserved lesson.

Since she’d scouted escape routes on her walk to the Ritz from the homeless shelter, Mickie knew the alley directly beside the dress shop, which connected to the coffee shop, would lead her to the back parking lot of the hotel.  That forethought allowed her to stay out of sight, in case the barista had called the police.

Breathing hard, she hooked a right, ran halfway down the alley, then removed the half-size-too-large heels which had probably been owned by a stripper or streetwalker, so she could run.  All she needed was to get thrown in jail for assaulting that garbage man.  Mickie knew he was a garbage man, because she was intimately acquainted with that smell now.

Well, in jail at least you’d get three squares a day and a bed that didn’t smell like mothballs and bleach.

“And probably a bullet between my eyes, if the Mafioso who trashed my apartment followed me here,” she mumbled as she jogged to the end of the alley as fast as she could, trying to ignore the nastiness beneath the soles of her feet like she did in the shower at the shelter. 

Thank you, Uncle Vincent. 

God, if he wasn’t dead, she’d probably kill him herself.  Number one on her personal hit list, though, was her cousin, Teresa, if the FBI or mob didn’t get to her first.  Going back into that office for her purse may have been a mistake.  Scrolling through her cousin’s computer, a bigger one.  Mickie knew too much now, more than she ever wanted to know about Girabaldi Enterprises. 

Like the fact the company was under investigation by the FBI for racketeering and other crimes, and the fact her cousin had emptied the business account before she left sick on Thursday. But at least from the deleted emails she’d found in the trash bin on her cousin’s computer, she was able to figure out where she might find Teresa, and why Mr. Lazzaro may have wanted to kill Vinny.

From the little she’d read, most of that money in that account appeared to be owed to the mob for some kind of mob deal her uncle brokered through a man named Blade in Washington, DC.  After finding out that information and going home to discover her apartment ransacked, Mickie left Ducktown with only the clothes on her back.  She had a feeling they would be back if she stayed. Not only would the mobsters be back, the feds wouldn’t be far behind them. 

Teresa was the only one who could untangle this mess, and Mickie was determined to find her.  But to continue her search, she needed to find a job, because Mickie quickly found out this town wasn’t cheap and she was out of money.

Just get this job and in two weeks, you’ll have money. 

Spending her last ten dollars on this 1980’s-era suit and stripper heels at the mission thrift store to up her chances of being hired was probably stupid, but she’d gotten a Louis Vuitton bag out of the deal, too.  She had to switch the tag with another pleather purse to afford it, but hey—a girl did what she had to do.  At least now she wouldn’t be going into this interview looking like a homeless person.

The purse gave her confidence, and the expensive coffee in her hand gave her hope that things would be normal again soon. Or a new version of normal that didn’t include working for a racketeer and running for her life.

Now all she had to do was convince the loud-talking woman with the thick Texan accent to hire her.  The other five interviews she’d been on were for service jobs that didn’t pay enough for her to live in Washington, DC or commute.  According to Lou Ellen, the woman she spoke with, this job would pay plenty if she were hired.  The only downside was, if she got the job, she would be in DC and not near her family.

God, she missed her family.  Her mother, father, and brothers were probably going crazy worrying about her.  But if she called them, they’d get dragged into the mess too. 

Her brother, Dante, who she suspected was trying to be made into the mob, would also find out. If they were really after her, serving her up on a platter to them would be a huge leap toward that goal, a feather in his cap.  Mickie loved him and hated to think he would do that, but she had to at least consider it. 

Out of habit, before she walked out into the open, Mickie scanned the parking lot, then hurried across the open lot to the back door at the far end of the hotel building.  She stopped at the door to catch her breath, but stared through the glass door to see the hallway was clear. Anxiety ratcheted like a tight band around her chest as she opened the door.

Would she ever feel safe again? Or would she spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder if she couldn’t find her cousin? 

With a sigh, Mickie walked into the cool hallway and stopped.  The door closed behind her and she lifted the hair from her neck, dug her toes into the plush carpet and moaned as the air conditioner evaporated the sweat from her skin.  The carpet felt so good to her sore feet, she contemplated going into the interview barefoot.  But she wanted the job badly enough to drop the sky-high heels on the floor and slide her feet into them.

Pulling a tissue from her purse, she blotted her face to get rid of the remaining sweat beads on her makeup, then took a deep breath and slowly blew it out.  She wadded the tissue and stuffed it back into her purse, then pulled out her resume. 

The flamingo pink paper insulted her eyes, but it was all she could afford after spending twenty dollars on computer time at the high-end copy shop to create this perfect work of fiction.  Padding her resume to soft-soap the fact she’d only ever worked for a racketeer, inflating her responsibilities, took time.  Mickie was thankful she found the paper in the discount bin, or she might have had to print the masterpiece on paper towels from the bathroom. 

This was the last copy she had, her last chance to get a job, unless she sold a pint of blood or a kidney to have more printed.  Nothing like a little pressure. Straightening her spine, Mickie forced herself to walk, feeling like it might be her last mile.  She examined the numbers outside the suites along the hallway until she found 832. 

The fact the suite number contained her lucky number, eight, she counted as a good sign as she raised her hand to knock on the door.  The door opened and the welcoming smile on the older, but well-put-together, woman’s face made Mickie feel marginally better.  She forced her trembling lips into a smile and extended her hand, hoping the woman wouldn’t notice it was shaking.

“Lou Ellen?  Hi, I’m Michaela Girabaldi,” she said, infusing confidence into her tone. 

Instead of shaking her hand, Lou Ellen grabbed it to pull her into the office and shut the door.  Standing back, her beautiful, ice blue eyes narrowed to inspect Mickie from head to toe, making Mickie squirm.  Her gaze zoomed back up, but stopped at her shoulder.  Mickie reached a hand up, hoping she hadn’t missed a burn or stain when she pulled the suit out of the plastic grocery bag at the shelter that morning.

With a smile, Lou Ellen leaned in to pick at a spot near her collar, then brushed her shoulder pad before she backed away. 

“I like a frugal girl,” she said with a wink, as she turned and walked toward an open doorway across the room. 

Like a lost duckling, which was exactly how she felt, Mickie followed her into a small conference room.  On her way to the table in the center of the room, Lou Ellen paused at a trashcan to drop a bright orange sticker into the can and Mickie cringed. It was worse than a stain or burn the woman found on her shoulder.  She’d plucked off the $10 price tag from the thrift store that Mickie had evidently forgotten to remove.

“I, ah…” Mickie stuttered, the urge to bolt intense.

“Relax, I don’t bite.  Have a seat.” Lou Ellen sat down, then waved her to a chair.  Folding her hands on the table, she met Mickie’s eyes. “Do you have a resume or would you just like to talk, Michaela?”

Mickie forced her feet to carry her to the table and sat down to her right.  There was no way Lou Ellen could miss the fact the paper shook like a leaf in a wind storm when she held out her resume. But she didn’t comment on it, and her nose didn’t even crinkle at the God-awful pink paper. Relief and hope mixed to make her lightheaded.

“Ten years on your last job, I see?  As office manager at a multi-faceted organization?” Lou Ellen asked, after she studied the pink sheaf.

Multi-faceted?  Yes, bookmaking, loan sharking, two pawn shops, a dog track offsite betting facility.  Behind the scenes illegal gaming…oh, and let’s not forget money laundering and deal brokering for the mob.  Mickie crossed her fingers in her lap.

“Yes, ma’am.  I worked for my uncle, but he’s now deceased, so you won’t be able to get a reference from him.”  Which is why she applied for menial service jobs and a coffee shop job, instead of utilizing her business degree until now. 

“Do you have personal references, then?” she asked, meeting Mickie’s eyes.

“I do have a couple on the back side, but I’d, ah, prefer you not call them.”  God, Mickie knew she was wasting her time here, wasting this woman’s time. The only thing on her resume that could be verified was her business degree.  She swallowed hard.  “Or if you do call, please don’t mention anything about the job or where it’s located.” 

That didn’t sound too dubious, or anything.  Yeah, right, Mickie thought, digging in her heels to push the chair back when the woman thanked her for her time and said she’d be in touch, which was interview code for she was not hired.

Lou Ellen pushed her resume to the side and laced her fingers together while she studied Mickie like an insect under a magnifying glass.  Her mouth twisted. “Okay, Michaela, why don’t you tell me about your family and who you’re running from.”

A block of cement, about the size of the shoes her uncle’s business associates would fit her for if they found her, settled in her stomach.  Mickie laced her own fingers together in her lap, but twisted them. 

“I have a very large family on the outskirts of Atlantic City, and we’ve been there since the beginning of time.  Why would you think I’m running?  I’m, ah, just looking for better career opportunities,” she said, unable to hide the tremble in her voice.

“In the most expensive place to live in the country?  With a resume that can’t be verified?  In a suit you bought at the thrift store?” Lou Ellen fired back, leaning back in her chair to cross her arms, which on a body language scale was not a good sign.  “Honey, I’ve been in a spot or two myself before, and I know those spots when I see them.  Just tell me it’s not criminal, or if it is, that you’re not involved.  Because of the classified jobs we’ll be handling in this office, you’ll have to have security clearance.”

A jolt of fear rocked Mickie, followed by sickness that shot up to choke her.  That was never going to happen.  She couldn’t let it happen, or the FBI would be on her two-yard line.  Grabbing her purse, she slid the strap over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry for wasting your time.” Mickie put her palms on the table and pushed up to stand, but Lou Ellen’s hand shot out to cover hers. 

“Sit down, Michaela. I’m not finished with our interview.”  Lou Ellen’s gaze was as steely as her grip on Michaela’s wrist.  “Running isn’t going to do a thing for you, sugar.  I don’t think you realize what we do, the kind of company you’ve applied to work for.  Helping people in trouble is our business, and I can tell you we’re damned good at it.”

Deep Six Security.  No, she didn’t know anything about the company.  She didn’t have access to a computer and her phone didn’t have internet.  Because of the name, she thought they were a company that provided security guards for businesses.  Obviously, she was wrong?

“What kind of company is this?” Mickie asked, sitting back down because it was obvious this woman wasn’t just going to let her walk out.

“Our Dallas office handles high-level investigations, missing person cases, some paramilitary operations but this office will work with the alphabet agencies to handle government investigations, military contracts, close protection details, and paramilitary rescue missions.”

“Oh, God—there’s no way I can work for you!” Michaela slapped a hand over her trembling mouth, because she thought she may just throw up.

“There is, if you just talk to me,” Lou Ellen said, her grip easing on Mickie’s wrist. “The east coast office doesn’t open for another six months, so we have time to help you solve your problems as long as you assure me you’re not involved in any criminal activity.”  Lou Ellen crossed her hands on the table, tilted her head, and focused her laser-sharp gaze on Michaela.

“I’m not involved in it,” Mickie whispered, with disbelief making her dizzy.  “But why in the world would you want to hire me knowing I’m in trouble?”

“We’re kind of a team of misfits, but that makes us the best in the business. Every one of us has had trouble of some kind, but we didn’t run from it.  We had the courage to run toward it, together, to reclaim our lives. I want to help you do that, Michaela.”

“But why?” Michaela asked. “You don’t know me.”

“Because I see something in you that makes me think you’d be a good fit for our team. You’re a lot like me, just greener.  I can help you, but you have to help yourself first by trusting me and telling me what’s going on.”

Mickie chewed the inside of her cheek as she looked deeply into the woman’s totally unreadable eyes.  Lou Ellen didn’t know Mickie from Alice, but she was trusting her and offering to help her.  She needed that help, and this job, too badly not to take the same leap of faith.

What did she have to lose at this point?