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MOLLY

Fluorescent lights in the federal building hum, a constant buzz that drills into my skull, making everything feel slightly off-kilter.

My mother used to say I was born with a low tolerance for chaos, but the truth is I just like control, control means safety, and safety is a luxury I learned to manufacture for myself.

I’ve been here for fourteen hours straight. The Borsellini financial records multiply instead of shrinking no matter how many pages I review.

My coffee went cold an hour ago, but I take another sip anyway, grimacing as the bitter sludge coats my tongue.

The RICO case against Giovanni Borsellini and his organization represents eighteen months of my life, and we’re three weeks away from trial.

Every transaction, every coded conversation, every witness statement has to be perfect.

I roll my shoulders, trying to work out the knots from fourteen hours building a case to bring down the most dangerous crime family on the East Coast. Outside the twenty-third floor window, downtown DC sparkles in the darkness.

Most of the city’s honest citizens long since went home with their families. But I’ve never been most people.

My phone buzzes. My sister, Louisa, asking if I’m still alive.

I text back “Barely” and return to the records.

Alessio Borsellini, Giovanni’s son and apparent heir to the family business, has been sloppy with his digital footprint.

Young and arrogant, the kind of man who thinks a threat and a sneer can solve any problem in a world of federal surveillance.

Even on paper, he has a way of getting under my skin.

He’s about to learn otherwise.

An elevator dings somewhere down the hallway, but I don’t look up. Night security making rounds, probably. Or another prosecutor working impossible hours to build an impossible case against impossible odds.

I’m reaching for my highlighter when I hear the first gunshot.

The sound echoes through the building, transmitted up through steel and concrete with brutal clarity. I freeze, yellow marker halfway to the page, my brain struggling to process what I’ve just heard. Car backfiring, maybe. Construction work. Anything other than what my gut knows it was.

The second shot removes all doubt.

My heart hammers against my ribs as I push back from my desk, papers scattering. The smart thing would be to call security, to stay in this locked office twenty-three floors above whatever’s happening out there and to mind my own business.

I snatch my phone and rush to the window, pressing my face against the cold glass.

From this angle, I can see the entrance ramp and the first level of parking in the building garage.

Most of the spaces are empty at this hour, just a few scattered vehicles belonging to building security and the handful of government employees insane enough to work past midnight.

A black SUV idles near the elevator bank, its engine running, exhaust visible in the chilly night air. No license plates are clear from this distance though. Three figures stand in a tight circle around a body on the concrete floor.

A body that isn’t moving.

My hands shake as I fumble with my phone, pulling up the camera and zooming in as far as the lens will allow.

My prosecutor instincts kick in. Evidence first, emergency calls second.

Without proof, it’s just another he-said-she-said.

The image is grainy, but I can make out enough details to know I’m witnessing something I shouldn’t be. Something that could get me killed.

The tallest figure turns slightly, and even through the pixelated zoom, I recognize the profile immediately. Alessio Borsellini. The same face I’ve been staring at in surveillance photos for months, the same arrogant tilt of his head that comes through in every intercepted phone call.

He’s holding a gun.

Alessio has made eliminating witnesses an art form, and I’ve spent too many months studying his methods to ignore what’s happening below.

As I watch, frozen in horror and fascination, he leans down and says something to the person on the ground. I can’t hear the words, but I can see his lips moving. Then he straightens, raises the weapon, and fires twice more into the prone figure.

The body jerks once and goes still.

My breath comes out in a harsh gasp that fogs the window.

I should look away, should call 911, should do anything other than stand here recording a murder.

But some sick fascination keeps me pressed against the glass, watching as Alessio hands the gun to one of his companions and pulls out his phone.

Making a call. Reporting completion of the job, probably. Crossing another name off his list.

That’s when he looks up.

Something in his posture changes. He’s looking up, scanning the building methodically.

My blood turns cold. Twenty-three floors down, through tinted glass and shadow.

It’s impossible, I tell myself. He can’t see me from that distance, can’t know I’m watching.

But Alessio Borsellini didn’t survive in his family’s business by ignoring his instincts.

He says something sharp to his companions, pointing up toward my building. Both men follow his gaze, and I catch a glimpse of their faces in the parking garage’s fluorescent lighting.

I know those faces. Tony Ricci and Sean Walsh, both with official records dating back a decade, both with specialties in making people disappear.

My phone feels slippery in suddenly sweaty palms as I stumble backward from the window. They can’t possibly know which floor I’m on, and can’t know which office. The building has hundreds of windows and dozens of floors. I could be anyone. I’m not the only one with their light still on. Hopefully.

But the rational part of my brain, the part that’s studied organized crime for years, knows better. They’ll figure it out. Men like Alessio don’t leave loose ends, and a federal prosecutor with eighteen months of evidence against his family definitely qualifies as a loose end.

I need to get out of here. Now.

My hands are surprisingly steady as I save the video to three different cloud accounts and start shoving critical files into my briefcase.

Borsellini financial records, witness statements, surveillance transcripts, everything that could disappear if something happens to me.

The case has to survive even if I don’t.

An elevator dings again, much closer this time. My floor.

Cold spreads through my veins. I kill the office lights and move further from the door, pressing myself against the wall beside my desk. Maybe it’s security making rounds. Maybe it’s another prosecutor working late. Maybe it’s nothing.

Footsteps in the hallway, moving with purpose. Not the casual pace of a guard checking doors, but the measured stride of someone with a destination in mind.

Someone who knows exactly which office they’re looking for.

The footsteps stop outside my door. Shadows are moving beneath the gap, blocking out the hallway light. My heart pounds so loudly I’m certain they can hear it through the steel door.

A voice, low and unmistakably accented. Italian-American, like half the wiseguys in Borsellini’s organization. “Molly. We know you’re in there.”

My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. They know my name. They know exactly who I am and what I’ve been working on. Which means they know what I represent to their case.

“Just want to chat,” the voice continues, almost friendly. “Nothing unpleasant. Open the door, Ms. Morrone.”

Like hell.

I ease toward the window, briefcase clutched against my chest. There’s a fire escape that leads to the adjacent building. If I can reach it without being seen, if I can get to my car, if I can get out of the garage before they reach the ground floor...

Too many ifs. But it’s the only chance I have.

The window opens easily. Cold November air cuts through my blazer, raising goosebumps along my arms. The fire escape platform sits three feet away. I jump or wait here for Alessio’s cleanup crew to finish their work.

The doorknob rattles as someone tests it. Then the quiet beep of an electronic key card. Someone has access. These aren’t street thugs breaking down doors with crowbars. These are specialists who came prepared.

No choice at all, really.

I climb onto the window ledge, briefcase strap wrapped around my wrist, and jump.

The metal platform catches me with a bone-jarring clang that echoes through the night air. I bite back a cry of pain and start down the ladder, moving as quickly as my shaking hands will allow. Behind me, I hear the office door burst open and the vicious curse of someone who’s found an empty room.

“She’s not here,” a voice calls out, different from the first. Younger, more agitated. “Window’s open. Fucking fire escape.”

“Find her,” comes the reply. Cold, controlled, definitely Alessio himself. “Check the stairwells, check the elevators. She doesn’t leave this building.”

I’m halfway down the adjacent building’s fire escape when my phone buzzes with an incoming call. Unknown number. I almost ignore it, but something makes me answer.

“Ms. Morrone.” Alessio’s voice, smooth as silk and twice as deadly. “You have something that belongs to me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I whisper, still climbing down through the darkness.

“Whatever evidence you think you gathered tonight, video’s, photos, recordings you just took. You need to delete all that, along with any copies you might have made.”

My foot slips on the wet metal rung, and I have to grab the railing to keep from falling. He knows. Somehow, he knows exactly what I saw and what I recorded.

“Delete the video, destroy your case files, and walk away from the prosecution,” he continues. “Do that, and we have no problems. Continue to be... difficult... and we’ll have to discuss this face to face.”

“Go to hell.” I end the call.

The phone immediately starts ringing again, but I ignore it.

I’m three blocks away from the federal building now, having taken every back alley and side street I could find.

My car is in the building’s garage, but that’s obviously not an option anymore.

Public transportation has stopped running, and calling a cab would leave a digital trail.

I need help. Federal help.

My hands tremble as I scroll through my contacts, looking for the emergency number they gave all the federal prosecutors. The one we’re supposed to call if we’re ever threatened in connection with a case.

The phone rings twice before someone answers.

“United States Marshals Service, Emergency Response. What is the nature of your situation?”

“This is Federal Prosecutor Molly Morrone, ID number 47-8834. I just witnessed a murder connected to an ongoing RICO case, and the perpetrators are actively hunting me. I need immediate protection.”

“Copy that, Ms. Morrone. Stay on the line while I dispatch units to your location. Can you tell me where you are?”

I give them the intersection, then lean against a brick wall and slide down until I’m sitting on the cold sidewalk. The adrenaline is fading, leaving behind a strange combination of terror and arousal that I don’t want to examine too closely.

I almost died tonight. Should be dead probably, if not for luck and a well-placed fire escape. But instead of feeling victimized or helpless, I feel... alive. More alive than I have in months of desk work and legal briefs.

The danger thrills me in a way it absolutely shouldn’t. My hands won’t stop shaking. I’ve never been in a life-or-death situation before, and part of me can’t believe I survived. The adrenaline makes everything feel hyperreal.

And that realization scares me more than Alessio Borsellini ever could.

But as I sit in the darkness waiting for U.S. Marshals, who may or may not arrive in time, I can’t shake the feeling that tonight changed everything. That the woman who climbed out that window isn’t the same one who’s going to climb back into whatever life comes next.

Some part of me is excited to find out who that new woman might be.

Even if she gets me killed in the process.