23
“Who taught you how to block a punch?” Sharp says, disappointment in his voice.
“My sister’s boyfriend,” I lie. Aidan taught me a lot of things, but self-defense wasn’t one of them.
Sharp nods like this makes sense. “Secret Service. They’ve got a less efficient style. I’m not a fan.”
“Well, they hate your methods of information sharing,” I tell him.
“Less talk, more workout,” Sharp says.
The hotel’s fitness room has a large, blue mat spread across one side, and the other side has cardio machines and a multifunction weight bench. The door to the fitness room is glass from top to bottom and I keep glancing at it, making sure none of my classmates are walking by. Not sure how I would explain this.
“Disarming,” Sharp says. He makes his hand into the shape of a gun and points it at my chest. “One hand wraps around the barrel of the gun; the other smacks the forearm of their gun hand.”
“Wait…” I shake my head, trying to keep up. “Whose gun hand? Why are we doing this?”
“Sheldon’s by the book,” he says.
“Is that what she is?”
“I mean she’ll want to pull you from the operation,” Sharp explains.
“Because of what I told my mom?”
“Because of the Zanettis. It’s one thing to toss you back into an environment you spent most of your life in, but con artists and mobsters are definitely not one and the same. You’ll have to prove to Sheldon that you can handle it.” He drops his arm and takes a step back. “Unless you want out? If you do, just say the word.”
After the fight I had with my dad today, I definitely want out, but where would that leave Mom? I doubt I’m allowed to take the prize money home if I don’t finish the race. “So you didn’t know about the Zanettis? Not even in a working theory?”
“No, not in any scenario,” Sharp says. “And it’s not just you who might be out. The FBI will likely need another team here. Sheldon doesn’t have experience in organized crime.”
I lift an eyebrow. “And you do?”
“Not in this country,” he admits. “I served in the air force for twelve years, and eight of those were spent chasing down drug lords and criminal families in South America.”
“Well that explains the crew cut.” Through the fitness room door I spot Mr. Lance turning the corner. I step around Agent Sharp and hop onto the elliptical machine. Sharp drops to the mat and starts a series of push-ups, giving the impression of two strangers politely sharing the small space.
Mr. Lance spots me right away and pokes his head inside the room. “Hey, Ellie. Did you enjoy your NYU class? Which did you sit in on again?”
“Economics.” Thank God I studied the itinerary, especially considering the fact that I’m missing half the activities. “It was a little over my head. But I do have the sudden urge to visit Wall Street; is this normal?”
He laughs, prepares to leave me in peace, but instead pokes his head back in. “Where is your buddy? No wandering alone. It’s the number one rule of Holden Does New York.”
I really hate that nickname. “Justice is on her way down. I’ll wait for her next time, I promise, even though she’s an elliptical hog.”
The moment he’s out of sight, I stop my unnecessary exercising. I can’t believe people use this thing on purpose. I turn to Sharp, needing to get down to business. “Do you really think a thirty-minute lesson in punching and disarming will make Agent Sheldon believe I’m ready to handle mobsters? I mean, I haven’t even seen any of them besides Bruno. It’s possible I might not see any of them at all.”
“True,” he reasons. “That’s very possible. Confrontation, especially of the violent nature, is still a last resort, even with crime families. Though their idea of last resort often holds a different meaning.”
Dominic sends me a text to meet him in his room, and Sharp gets official word from his partner regarding the future of our operation moments later.
“Sheldon has an update for me—we’ll be in touch soon,” he says, his hand already on the door handle. “Get the DeLuca kid to practice a couple of those moves with you and do some light research on organized crime families in America. You might find it helpful.”
“So you think we’re still a go?” I ask.
“The Zanettis are a game changer, but the tone of Sheldon’s text suggests a green light.” He pauses at the door, turning to fully face me. “Most important thing to remember with mafia families is that they’re sworn in for life and above all, including God, family, and love. Whatever they’ve set out to do in this con, that’s what they’re going to do. There’s no swaying or manipulating a different outcome. If your dad and crew have any of those ideas in the plans, then they’re in a world of danger.”
I swallow back an image of Dad, Oscar, and Grandpa Barney stuffed in a speedboat, cement blocks tied to their ankles. I’m still hanging on to Agent Sharp’s warning when I knock on Dominic’s door a few minutes later.
“You were right,” Dominic says as soon as I’m inside the room and the door is closed. “About the information packets.”
My mind has been so focused on mobsters today I had forgotten about the actual con. “I didn’t know you doubted that theory.”
“Well, no,” he says, “but I knew we needed evidence.”
My forehead wrinkles. “And you have evidence? How?”
“Yes, I have evidence of monetary exchange.” He exhales. “But I’m not sure if we can give all of it to the FBI.”
“Explain.” I wave an impatient hand, encouraging him to get to the point. “Please.”
“I knew we couldn’t check out the contracted services, because your family might recognize you or might have heard about me,” he says, raking a hand through his hair. “So I sort of hired someone to go through the open audition yesterday, get the information packet, and then check out a few of the contracted services. I gave her money to pay for head shots or whatever.”
My mouth falls open, but it takes a while before I can speak. “Wait…what? You hired someone? Like who?”
Dominic shrugs. “Just called up an escort service. Turns out they’re pretty flexible about what customers need them for.”
“Oh I’m sure.” I shake my head. “But seriously? That was pretty stupid. You could blow our cover or the FBI’s.”
His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t seem too surprised by my reaction. “I didn’t see her, paid for everything online. Got the evidence from her via an anonymous email account that I just opened. I told her my little sister wanted to audition, but I needed to see if the agency was a scam first.”
Okay, that’s a bit better. “What did she find out? And how old is this escort? It’s a child talent agency.”
“Children and young adults,” Dominic reminds me, probably reciting the speech he’s heard my dad give during open auditions several times now. He snatches his already opened laptop from the bed and places it on a small table beside the dresser for me to see. The first picture was taken inside what looks like a small music studio; there’s a piano and some technical equipment. A woman with long brown hair, and gray streaks throughout, is seated at the piano.
Even without seeing her face, I recognize her. “Candy.”
“You know her?” Dominic asks.
“She’s Oscar’s mom.”
He flips through several more images, and I am able to identify three more members of my family—two at a photo studio and another at a dance studio.
“The escort had dance and voice lessons, plus head shots all in one day? How much did you pay her?”
“She made appointments at all three, paid in advance,” he says. “But she did participate in the personal training session.”
He tenses before flipping to the next photo, as if anticipating my reaction. “Recognize her personal trainer?”
“Oh shit.” I lean in closer and blink just to be sure I’m seeing this right. Miles? “How— Why?”
I tug my phone from my pocket and punch in a text to Miles, my fingers banging against the screen of my phone with more force than needed.
ME: we need to talk. Now.
Dominic sees my text and seems to remember something. He produces a tiny slip of pink paper from his back pocket. “Your future husband told me he got a tracker on MB. I swiped the package from his dresser while he was freaking out this morning. He hadn’t even turned it on yet, so I registered it myself, checked up on MB, and then shut it off. But not before writing this down.”
“That little shit. I can’t believe he got a tracker on Miles.” I stare at the address on the pink paper, committing it to memory, then I snatch it from Dominic, take it into the bathroom, and flush it. “Hang onto that evidence for now.”
I punch another text to Miles.
ME: never mind. I know where u r. On my way