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I tear my gaze away from Joseph and take my laptop out of my bag to research the guy in Arturo’s interrogation room downstairs.
Doing a generic search for John Smith turns up several pages related to cartoons and early American history. I need something relevant to present day events. I need something that ties him to Giuseppe Rossi.
After trying several phrases and multiple search engines, I still come up empty handed. It’s no surprise he gave Joseph a fake name, but Joseph should have caught that.
How many guys are named John Smith in our lifestyle? I would guess not that many. Besides, why would someone give up their name that easily?
Joseph is slipping and now isn’t the best time to fuck up.
This ‘John Smith’ guy must be associated with Giuseppe Rossi one way or another. I open the database Arturo, Joseph, and I started last year with every Rossi family member and known associate.
I scan through the photographs, hoping to find one that matches the man in the interrogation room. We have pictures of men and women, both young and old, but none of them look remotely similar to the prisoner.
What am I missing here? I start at the beginning and look at every photograph again. Maybe he changed his look. He could have dyed his hair, shaved, or even resorted to plastic surgery.
There aren’t any men that share the same jaw line, lips, eyes, or nose with ‘John Smith’. He isn’t in our database.
Looking up, I meet Joseph’s gaze. He narrows his eyes and whispers, “Is something wrong, Alexandra?”
My name sounds exotic on his lips. I could listen to him whisper my name for the rest of my life.
No. I can’t. I can’t give in to the lust flowing through my veins.
My heart clenches in protest.
I want Joseph. My body craves him. No man will ever take his place.
I take a deep breath and say in an even tone, “Everything is fine. I just keep hitting roadblocks with my research.”
My gaze moves to Arturo, where he is furiously texting someone before returning to the dark gaze that makes my heart and pussy flutter.
“Do you need help? Two minds are usually better than one.”
He smirks and I almost faint.
Why is it that we always want what we can’t have?
Forcing myself to put some distance between Joseph and me and shut down my emotions has only made the urge to be with him even more unbearable.
My eyelids flutter as memories flood through my mind. I shake my head and dislodge those memories from the forefront of my mind.
This entire weekend, I had to force myself to not pick up my phone and call him. I wanted to tell him what happened with my father. I wanted to confess to agreeing to work with Giuseppe and spy on Arturo.
But I couldn’t trust myself to be near him. I couldn’t trust the well of emotions bursting free.
“Uh, sure. I don’t mind your input on this.”
Joseph stands and moves his stuff to the seat next to mine. Leaning over the arm of his chair, he asks, “What are you working on?”
“The prisoner you have downstairs was lying about his name, and I’m trying to uncover his true identity.”
“And that’s the roadblock?”
“Yes. I searched the internet for his name and any association I could think of, but came up empty. Then, I looked through our entire database twice and his picture wasn’t in there. If he is associated with Giuseppe Rossi, we don’t have a profile written up on him.”
Joseph frowns. “That’s not possible. We have every associate he’s ever had, dating back to before my parents were married.”
“I remember his face, and it doesn’t match any of the photographs we have.”