Page 26 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

“I’ve been building rapport with his sister,” I reply, glad he doesn’t have the superpower to read my inner thoughts.

“Stella is close to him. If there’s a way in, it’s through her.

” When he doesn’t say anything, I add, “It would have helped knowing she was studying at UChicago. I could have struck a friendship with her sooner if I had that piece of information beforehand.”

“Why bother?” Haynes snorts. “Women never know anything about the Outfit business. I doubt she has the faintest clue what her brother’s up to.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure. The two of them seem… tight.”

“The only thing tight around here is your deadline,” he says coldly. “It’s been over a month, and we’re no closer to closing this case than when you started.”

I bite back the urge to defend myself. I have made progress. More than Haynes is willing to admit. But he isn’t interested in credit unless he’s the one getting it.

“I’ll keep working on Stella,” I say in a steady voice.

“Lost cause, if you ask me. But go ahead,” he grumbles. Then his gaze drops, settling shamelessly on my chest. “I still think seduction is the better route. Are you sure you can’t entice him to your bed? Hard to believe a woman like you wouldn’t have some kind of effect on him.”

The way he says it, while his gaze lingers on my cleavage, makes my skin crawl.

“No.”

“Have you even tried?”

I swallow the sharp response that threatens to escape and shake my head instead. “He’s not interested in me… that way.”

“Very well.” He frowns, clearly disappointed. “Sometimes you can’t quench a man’s thirst, no matter how mouthwatering the glass.”

I force myself not to flinch or grimace at his misogynistic remark. Instead, I just nod and keep my face as neutral as possible, so he doesn’t see how repulsive I find him.

Not only is Haynes a callous, chauvinist pig, but he is the type of agent who’d sell his own grandmother if it meant closing a case. To him, the only asset a female agent brings to undercover work is what’s between her thighs. I’d bet my life savings that he thinks the same of all women, period.

Though I loathe to admit it, the Bureau doesn’t just tolerate Haynes’s way of thinking, they even endorse it.

At Quantico, we were taught to leverage every possible advantage against our subjects, including our sexuality.

I know plenty of agents—men and women—who can compartmentalize and use their powers of seduction to get close to their targets when it’s the most effective strategy.

I’m just not one of them. If push came to shove and that was the only way I could get closer to my subject, then maybe I’d have no choice then to consider it, but that’s not the case here.

Working at Carmine’s gym is an in. Becoming friends with Stella is another.

Maybe I could even find a way to get close to Annamaria.

There are so many ways to infiltrate Marcello’s life that I don’t need to fuck him, no matter how much Haynes wants me to.

“Stay on his radar, then,” Haynes says at last. “Use the sister, use whatever you have to. Just don’t let up.”

“Yes, sir,” I mutter, my hand already reaching for the handle. “Anything else?”

“No. Just get out,” he replies in annoyance. “And next week, bring me something we can use. Something palpable. Or don’t bother coming at all.”

I bite down on the inside of my cheek and step out of the car. The moment the door clicks shut, Haynes peels off, as if he couldn’t get away from me fast enough.

“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, slamming my car door harder than necessary.

I put the key into the ignition and turn it, the engine sputtering, once, twice, then nothing. I grip the steering wheel tighter, jaw clenched.

“C’mon, old girl… help a sister out.” Nothing. I drop my forehead against the wheel with a groan.

After everything with Haynes, Marcello, and the emotional whiplash of both, I’ve earned a quiet ride home. Just one thing today that works like it’s supposed to. One thing that doesn’t give me any grief.

On the third try, the engine coughs to life as if doing me a favor.

“Thank you,” I mutter, dragging in a breath. “Now let’s get the hell out of here before something else goes wrong.”

I could’ve requested the agency for a vehicle, one with all its working parts.

Heating, probably even Bluetooth. But it wouldn’t fit my cover.

An old, beat-up sedan fits the image of a struggling student in debt with a side hustle as a fitness instructor.

And if anyone sees me circling near Marcello, I can always claim it to be a coincidence.

Chicago might be a big city, but it’s not that big.

You’d be surprised by who you can bump into on the daily.

At least that’s my cover story if Marcello ever catches me following him.

Not that I think that will ever happen. In the weeks I’ve tailed him, he’s yet to see me do it.

Which is odd for a man who is naturally suspicious of everyone and everything.

Images of him in the shower flash across my mind, smug and unbothered, clearly enjoying their rent-free stay in my brain.

“Snap the fuck out of it, Izzie,” I mutter, cursing myself for how easily the mere thought of him drags me right back to our last encounter.

I hate how easily those uninvited images slip in, no matter how hard I try to push them out.

No matter how much I fight, some part of me caves, letting the memory play in a loop until I’m forced to relive it all over again.

Relive every second of watching Marcello under the harsh spray of the shower, head tilted back, water cascading over every sculpted inch of him.

He looked like sin rinsed clean, and watching him like that…

was almost more intimate than touching him.

Marcello Romano is the kind of danger that doesn’t come with a warning label.

Just scars. And I’m afraid that seeing him in that light might just have ruined my perception of other men.

He’s a Michelangelo painting come to life—every angle, every shadow drawn with purpose.

How could anyone else ever compare to that?

I’m still tangled in those uninvited thoughts when I take a left turn toward my apartment, only to have a strange sensation creep in, pushing everything else aside.

It’s way past midnight, which means the only vehicles I should see on the road at this hour are delivery trucks, late-night commuters, and the occasional sketchy driver trying to make it home without getting pulled over.

So when I glance in my rearview mirror and spot a black SUV a few feet behind me, my hackles rise.

Especially because he seems to be following me, turning in every turn I make, and slowing down when I do.

My training immediately kicks in, as I pick a mural with graffiti as my landmark and start counting just to see how close the SUV really is to me. One, two, three, four.

He’s just close enough to blur the line between paranoia and actual instinct. To be sure, I make a sudden turn onto a side street, one that loops around and reconnects to the main road.

My heart skips a beat as I check the mirror again. The SUV doesn’t follow. Still, the unease doesn’t leave me.

“Great. Let’s add neurotic to my hot mess resume,” I mutter, tightening my grip on the wheel.

Marcello is a bad influence. His paranoia is starting to rub off on me. And just as his name crosses my mind, the image of him completely naked in the gym shower flickers uninvited behind my eyes yet again.

“Goddamn it!” I slap my steering wheel. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”

I take a deep breath, trying to steady the chaos inside me.

But no matter how many breathing exercises I do, all my woes circle back to one person—Marcello.

He’s the reason I’m even in this state to begin with.

He’s never been that bold before. In fact, he’s done everything in his power to pretend I don’t even exist.

I can only chalk this sudden change in behavior to him wanting me to feel uncomfortable.

And he succeeded. But what really unsettled me wasn’t the nakedness itself.

It was how my body responded to his. Even his eyes.

Those dead, unblinking eyes. God, how they haunt my sleep.

And I wish I could say they only visit me in my nightmares.

But they don’t. They come to me in fever dreams. Dreams that have me gasping for breath the second I wake up.

Dreams where I don’t just watch him… I touch him.

Kiss and lick every inch of the wet body he flaunted in front of me tonight.

If Haynes knew how badly I’m attracted to the man I’m supposed to be investigating, he’d lose his mind.

God, I really do need to get my head examined. Because if a cold-blooded killer like Marcello Romano can unravel me this easily, then I’m way too close to crossing a line I might not come back from.