Page 4 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Isobel

It’s been two months since I got back to the Washington Field Office.

Two very long months. Before that, I was riding high, working undercover with the San Francisco task force, chasing Bratva operations up and down the West Coast, preventing them from taking root on U.S.

soil. My first official assignment in the Organized Crime Division of CID, and not to toot my own horn, but I was freaking killing it.

Then I got called back to D.C., and ever since, I’ve been spinning my wheels and twiddling my thumbs. They try to keep me busy with briefings at the Hoover Building, reviewing dead-end case files, and enough bad coffee to give me heartburn.

I know the drill—stay ready, stay sharp, and sit quietly until you’re called off the bench. But the waiting is starting to itch under my skin.

I didn’t sign up to push paper while Organized Crime HQ plays musical chairs with assignments.

I need something real. Something with teeth.

Something that reminds them why they brought me into this division in the first place.

I’m not just some rookie they can keep on standby.

I’ve proven to be an asset, and they damn well know it.

When I vocalize my discontent, the response I get is always the same. I’m told to be patient since ASAC is still deciding who’s getting what.

Sure. I get it. I’m not the only agent eager to earn their stripes. But just because I get it doesn’t mean I have to like it.

Idle hands and an overactive brain? Yeah, not exactly a winning combo for someone like me.

I’ve spent way too much time doom-scrolling, getting more frustrated by the day, gagged and bound by bureaucracy while real cases pile up.

And it’s not like there’s a shortage of them.

Every time I check the news online, it feels like field assignments are practically screaming for boots on the ground.

Because that’s the thing about organized crime—it’s everywhere.

D.C. has the Triad, Boston’s still ruled by the Irish mob, and New York clings to the Cosa Nostra.

Biloxi, Mississippi, all the way to New Orleans, Louisiana, is Dixie Mafia territory.

The border states like Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona are cartel country, with none more vicious than Cartel Salvatierra.

And California’s Bratva problem? They’re swallowing up Nevada and inching west like a slow-moving plague.

However, the one organization that never makes headlines is the very one I grew up with—the Outfit, the Chicago syndicate.

For decades, since the Prohibition Era when Al Capone ruled the streets, one family has quietly held top rank—the Romanos.

After Capone’s successor fell, they moved in fast, claimed the throne, and never let it go.

For the past twenty years, they’ve practically vanished. Or so they want us to believe.

Officially, the only time the Romano name shows up is when they’re hosting a charity gala or getting handed an award for some philanthropic endeavor. A nonprofit here, a food drive there. They’ve scrubbed their image so clean it squeaks.

However, they’re the worst of the worst in my book.

Because while the other families bare their teeth and show the world exactly who they are, the Romanos wear masks.

They hide behind benevolence and glorified press releases, pretending their hands aren’t drenched in innocent blood.

And that’s why the Bureau’s never touched them.

How can we, when they leave no trail, no bodies, no mistakes, no fucking stone unturned?

No. The Outfit’s a ghost. And their Capo Dei Capi? He’s too shrewd and disciplined to leave us any breadcrumbs that might lead to him and his.

Vincent Romano doesn’t leave loose ends. He’s a ruthless killer just like the rest of them. But what’s worse? Is that somehow, he’s managed to buy the city’s loyalty with his sleight of hand.

Chicago both loves and fears him. And I doubt that will ever change.

These thoughts swirl through my head as I wait outside the ASAC’s office, finally called in after weeks of radio silence.

The secretary pretends I’m invisible, eyes fixed on the muted TV in the corner. I don’t need the sound to know what’s pulled her focus away from her work.

Charming as ever, President Lincoln Hamilton speaks into several microphones with the polish of a veteran and the promise of better days.

The youngest man ever elected to the Oval Office is currently crisscrossing the country on a relentless goodwill tour, trying to lock in a second term.

Every network’s glued to him as if he were the second coming.

And me? I’m stuck in limbo. But maybe not for much longer.

The moment the door swings open, I spring to my feet only to freeze at the sight of the person stepping out of Director Rodrick’s office.

“Well, if it isn’t Special Agent Hartley,” I say teasingly, smiling as familiarity washes over me. It’s been a while since I’ve seen my old roommate from Quantico.

“Isobel?” she says, a hint of surprise tugging at her usually stoic features. “Well, I’ll be damned. How long has it been? A year?” She smiles, or at least, as much of a smile as she’s ever capable of.

Hartley’s never been one to offer warmth easily. In all the time I’ve known her, I can count the number of genuine smiles on one hand, and I’m being generous. They might have just been one or two, and even those were just the slightest lift of her upper lip.

She always had a clear picture of the role she wanted to play in the Bureau. She wanted to be taken seriously, so when my drive and ambition met hers head-on, we somehow became the perfect duo.

Normally, I’d hug someone I hadn’t seen in so long. But with Hartley, I hang back since displays of any type of affection aren’t exactly in her comfort zone.

“A year sounds about right,” I reply, grinning in her stead. “If I’d known you were in town, I’d have planned a dinner or something. Bought you a drink at least. After all those all-nighters you pulled with me back in the day, it’s the least I could do.”

Honestly, I don’t think I would’ve made it through training without her. The program was brutal, and being two of only five women in our class that year made it even harder. But Hartley was a rock, and she ensured we’d both graduated with flying colors.

“You would’ve become a Fed with or without me,” she replies, and for a split moment, her turquoise eyes soften.

I’m not so sure about that, but I nod in agreement anyway. I can tell the compliment makes her uncomfortable. Hartley’s always kept her walls high. Never one to talk about fears or feelings. Aside from climbing the Bureau ladder together, I don’t know much about her personal life outside the badge.

“So,” I say, shifting the topic, knowing full well that work is where she feels safest, “what brings you here?”

“Same as you, I’d imagine. Picking up my next assignment.”

“Really?” I perk up. “Where are they sending you?”

“Pennsylvania. A little town called Salem’s Creek, actually. I’m headed there now.”

“Oh.” My brows furrow before I can stop them.

“Oh?” she mirrors the expression with a raised brow.

“It’s nothing,” I say quickly, forcing a smile. “I’m sure you’ll do great there.”

What else am I supposed to say? That Salem’s Creek is the kind of place where agents go to quietly disappear into paperwork?

It’s not exactly the front lines, and for someone like Hartley—whose dream was to lead the Behavioral Analysis Unit and take down serial killers—it feels off.

Those kinds of monsters don’t usually hide in sleepy towns.

Large cities? Sure. But Salem’s Creek? Yeah… not so much.

It also doesn’t make a whole lot of sense that ASAC would send an agent who was the top of our class to such a small town. Not unless she requested the assignment. But why would Hartley ever want to do that?

I’m just about to voice my suspicions when Hartley’s attention shifts to the television mounted on the wall. President Hamilton is mid-speech, his image commanding the room even from behind a screen.

“Not sure why he’s bothering to campaign,” she mutters, arms crossed tightly over her chest. “Everyone knows his second term is basically guaranteed. Both sides of the aisle love him.”

“He’s got my vote,” the secretary all but sighs, dreamy-eyed and one heartbeat away from fanning herself.

I catch the way Hartley’s jaw twitches. She wants to roll her eyes—badly—but holds back, just in case Director Rodrick steps out and catches her mid-gesture. Hartley may not care much for charm, but she does care about protocol.

“Not a fan?” I ask, turning just enough to catch a glimpse of the screen myself.

“I like him well enough. It’s the First Lady I have a problem with,” Hartley says, her scowl subtle but sharp.

“Agreed,” the secretary chimes in, officially inviting herself into what was a private conversation. “Kennedy Hamilton gives off serious mean-girl energy.”

I frown slightly, my gaze drifting to the immaculate figure standing just behind the president.

Flawless as ever, Kennedy Ryland Hamilton rests one hand gently at her side, the other clasped just so in front of her, chin high as her husband works the crowd with practiced optimism.

She’s elegance embodied. Always poised. Always picture-perfect and camera-ready.

The only fault I can find is that, like her husband, she feels too perfectly engineered for public life. More curated than real.

But that’s no surprise. They were both born and bred in Asheville, raised in a world where image is everything. A certain kind of refinement comes from growing up in places like that. Manners like velvet, smiles like strategy. They never interrupt, never falter, and never, ever let the seams show.