Page 64 of Vicious Behaviors

No, Izzie, there’s not. There is nothing special about Marcello aside from being a criminal.

“Wake the fuck up and get your shit together,” I mutter, staring at my own guilt-ridden reflection in the foggy mirror.

Unable to look at my face for another second, I turn around and head to the kitchen for some much-needed coffee. Food won’t go down this morning, but at least the warmth of a hotmug will ground me to the mundane moment, even if only for a little while.

I try not to look at the corkboard standing dead center in my living room. Still, eventually my gaze flicks to it of its own accord, finding the face that causes such chaos in me.

And to my shame, I can’t stop wondering what his eyes would look like if he were on top of me, inside me, fully owning me.

Ugh. Marcello’s photograph mocks me…almost as if it knew I got myself off last night with his face burned into my memory.

“Damn it,” I grumble, setting my mug down with a clink before grabbing the board and stashing it in the empty hallway closet.

“There. Out of sight, out of mind,” I whisper, like I just cleared some massive life hurdle.

How the hell am I supposed to build a case against Marcello when I can’t even look at him straight without some lurid fantasy popping in my head?

This case is doing my head in and not in a good way.

I’m always careful when I go undercover. I do everything in my power to remain detached and objective. I’ve never gotten attached to a subject. Never even thought that it could be a risk. And I sure as hell have never touched myself to the memory of a suspect’s voice or the image of his eyes watching me like I was the only thing in the room.

I need to put an end to this. The sooner I close this case, the better. So far, I’ve got nothing. No link between Marcello and Father McDonagh’s disappearance. So maybe it’s time to go back to the beginning.

I shoot off a quick text to the two clients I was supposed to train this morning to reschedule their sessions. If I want to get my head straight, I can’t risk running into Marcello at the gym first thing. I need space. Distance. Focus. I need to goback to basics. And what better place to start than where Father McDonagh was last seen—Sacred Heart Academy.

I sit across from a stern-looking nun who clearly isn’t buying what I’m selling.

“Pardon me for saying this, Sister Margaretta, but you don’t look convinced,” I say with a polite, bright smile.

“You took me off guard, Miss Graham,” she replies, with a stiff voice. “I wasn’t expecting this sort of conversation this morning.”

“I’m sure you weren’t,” I chuckle softly. “And thank you again for seeing me on such short notice. I was hoping, as a woman, you’d understand the value in what I’m offering.” Her face doesn’t so much as twitch.

“I’m a soldier for God. He protects me. I see no need for self-defense when I have Him at my side.”

“And I respect that. I do. But even with His grace, the world will always continue to be a dangerous place, especially for young girls. I’m not asking you to hire me full-time. Just that I come in once a month, say on a Saturday? And let the girls who want to take a self-defense class sign up voluntarily. I could even offer the space at the gym I work at now, but I think holding it here—a place they know, are familiar with, and feel safe—would be better suited.”

“And what gym do you say you work at?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

“DeLuca’s Gym, Mother Superior.”

“DeLuca? As in Giovanni DeLuca?” Her lips tighten into a frown.

“Actually, it’s his father who owns the gym, Carmine DeLuca. Do you know him?” I feign surprise.

“No. Just the son… unfortunately.” She adds the last part beneath her breath as her scowl deepens.

“Please let me assure you that DeLuca’s gym has no bearing on the self-defense classes I’m proposing. I just thought I could be of service,” I say quickly, holding her gaze.

Sister Margaretta still doesn’t look convinced, but the nun standing silently behind her does.

“It could count toward the girls’ extracurriculars,” Sister Agnes says gently, offering me a genuine smile. “Miss Graham has a point. Most of the girls here have been… sheltered. Too privileged to realize that there are dangers a woman might encounter in her life that neither wealth nor privilege can protect them from. It would help them to learn how to defend themselves against the more man-made evils of this world.”

“They should have God for that,” Mother Superior cuts in.

“And how can we be sure,” Sister Agnes says calmly, “that it wasn’t God who sent us Miss Graham for that very purpose?”

That gives Sister Margaretta pause. Her brows pull together, as she studies me long and hard before finally speaking.