Page 5 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

It’s not just how they’re taught to behave. It’s how they survive—grace as currency, charm as defense. But if the country has fallen in love with President Hamilton for those very traits, it feels hypocritical to crucify his wife for also embodying them.

As I’m about to point out the double standard, the secretary’s phone rings.

“Yes, ma’am? Very well, ma’am.” She hangs up the call and turns to me to announce, “Director Rodrick will see you now, Special Agent Graham.”

“Good luck,” Hartley says, a ghost of a smile teasing her lips.

I take a deep breath, straighten my spine, and walk into Director Janelle Rodrick’s office, praying this will be my last night in D.C.

The room is sleek and orderly, much like the woman behind the desk. Director Rodrick doesn’t look up as I enter. Her fingers move swiftly across her keyboard, the only sound in the room a soft rhythm of keystrokes. I stand at attention in front of her desk, doing my best not to fidget.

My mind starts to wander as she continues to focus on her screen.

Where will they send me? L.A.? Maybe they’ll throw me into a gang unit. Or perhaps they’ll send me to Boston or New York since I’ve shown my expertise in organized crime. Could it be Vegas? Atlanta? Lord knows I wouldn’t mind warm weather for once.

She finally stops typing and closes the laptop with precision, fixating me with a leveled, measuring look.

“It says here you’re from Chicago, Agent Graham. Is that correct?” she asks, tapping the tip of her fingernail on the closed file in front of her. My file.

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, keeping my posture tight.

She nods once, the faintest flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Then you’re used to harsh winters.”

I offer a polite smile, assuming it’s a joke. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Well, good,” she says, folding her hands atop my file. “Because that’s exactly where you’re going.”

I blink, unsure if I heard her right. “I’m sorry… did you just say Chicago?”

“Is there something unclear about that, Agent Graham?” Her tone is flat, but not unkind. Just very matter of fact.

“I just… wasn’t expecting that. Is there something big going down? A new syndicate emerging, maybe?”

She leans back in her chair, her expression illegible. “The Bratva still has minor affiliations there, but nothing concerning at the moment.”

“Then I don’t understand. Why am I going to Chicago?”

A slow smile curves her lips, one that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I say nothing, watching her closely.

“You’re being assigned to a newly formed task force,” she says.

“Its mission is singular.” I feel my pulse tick up as she leans forward slightly.

“To take down one of the oldest, most influential crime syndicates in the country.” Another beat. “The Outfit.”

The lights in the Chicago Field Office buzz and crackle like static on a wiretap. Mechanical, artificial, always humming, buzzing. I sit still, back straight, hands folded on the scratched-up metal table, trying to conceal my nerves.

Special Agent Marcus Haynes slides a folder toward me. “Open it.”

I do as he says, and a photograph of a man in his early twenties pops front and center.

I forget to breathe as the photo feels like it’s staring back at me.

Almost as if he could see me through the paper.

It’s his eyes—sad and distant. As if they belonged to someone watching the world from a far-off cliff.

They’re so unnerving that I’m tempted to push the photograph aside and pick up something else.

But I know better. Haynes is watching my reaction, measuring whether I’m ready for what this assignment will demand.

So I force myself to look at every picture and peruse every line of text.

The subject is tall. Six-foot-four, if the intel is right. Built like a man who knows exactly how to use his size and muscled frame in a fight. His hair is a dark blond that borders on gold when the sun hits it right, but somehow still manages to look like it belongs to a villain in a fable.

It feels like each picture is another revealing of his villain’s origin story.

Everything about him screams out, ‘Don’t get close.’

Which is a problem, because I’m pretty sure my new job requirement demands the exact opposite.

“Do you know who he is?” Agent Haynes finally asks, keeping his tone even, as if testing me.

I nod, flipping to the next page, and reply, “Marcello Romano. Second son of the Romano family, and if the rumors are true, he’s also the heir apparent to the Outfit’s throne.

” When Haynes doesn’t correct me, I keep going.

“He comes from old money and an even older bloodline. His father, Vincent Amato Romano, is the current Capo dei Capi and has been so since his predecessor, and uncle, Salvatore Romano, died peacefully in his sleep almost two decades ago. Or so the story goes. Vincent is more shadow than man. As for Marcello? He’s just as controlled.

Rumored to be dangerous even to his own men.

Though he’s never been charged with anything. Not even a parking ticket.”

“Until now.” Haynes leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We think he’s behind Father McDonagh’s disappearance. In fact, we believe he’s killed him.”

I raise a brow. “Are you talking about the priest who vanished last month, just before Christmas?”

“You know the case?”

“Honestly, since I’ve arrived in the city, that’s all anyone seems to talk about. Even the cab driver who brought me here today was lamenting about it. But I thought this was a missing person’s case.”

‘A case that’s run cold with no leads to speak of,’ I think to myself, instead of uttering that thought out loud. Something tells me Haynes wouldn’t appreciate my bluntness.

“As far as the public is concerned, it is.” He nods, leaving the rest unsaid.

“Okay… but where does Romano fit into the equation?”

“Simple. The priest was last seen at Sacred Heart. It’s a private Catholic school for prominent families.”

“Marcello doesn’t exactly look like he’s still in high school,” I counter, still confused about what the heir to a criminal empire has to do with the missing priest.

“He’s not. But three of his younger siblings are enrolled there. We have witnesses who place him and them at the school the day the priest disappeared.”

“With the priest?”

“No,” he admits, scowling. “That we don’t have. Nor do we have a motive. But the way Father McDonagh vanished? Clean, silent, not leaving so much as a trace? It reeks of mafia cleanup. We think the body must have been disposed of before the priest was even reported missing.”

I frown, not bothering to hide my skepticism.

Haynes is reaching. When ASAC gave me this assignment, I was over the moon.

Finally, we were going after the Outfit.

But this? Pinning a priest’s disappearance on a Romano with no motive, no murder weapon, and not a single witness tying the two together? It’s a stretch. A big one.

However, if Director Rodrick still sent me here, there must be more that Haynes is not saying.

Having decided to see this assignment through, I close the case file, look Haynes dead in the eye, and ask, “What are my orders?”

Haynes’s smile is instant.

“We need proof to link Marcello to Father Donagh’s murder.

We need motive, means, and opportunity to build a strong case against him.

In no shape or form can it be circumstantial.

We don’t want his father to use his money or political influence to throw out the case before it even gets to court.

Marcello Romano deserves to be behind bars.

And once we achieve that, the house of cards the Romanos have built over the years will start to fall down.

” He continues to grin as if he could almost taste Vincent Romano’s demise.

“Until this point, we have been unsuccessful in obtaining CI’s.

Their code of honor binds every soldier and capo from ever becoming an informant.

But once they see their boss vulnerable, bleeding, they will turn on him.

Of that, I’m sure. The weaker ones will want to turn state’s evidence and retire in WITSEC, while his stronger capos will use us to their advantage in the hopes that they can take over.

Vincent Romano’s reign will end. And it all starts with his son.

It all starts with Marcello. He’s the key. Our way in.”

“Sounds easy enough,” I mutter, wondering how the hell I’m going to pull this off.

Haynes doesn’t smile this time.

“This isn’t like your last assignment, Agent Graham.

You’re not dealing with low-rung thugs or Bratva muscle.

Don’t let his good looks fool you, either.

This man was raised inside the Outfit. He was born into silence, loyalty, and blood.

If he figures we’re onto him, he won’t hesitate.

He will kill you. Your family won’t even have a body to mourn over. ”

“I can handle him,” I retort with steel in my voice.

“Don’t underestimate him. He didn’t just inherit this empire—he was chosen.

Over his older brother. Overseasoned capos who have more than earned the loyalty and respect from Vincent’s men.

That has to mean something. We may not know why, but if Vincent picked him above all, then Marcello is cut from the same cloth he is. Calculating. Cunning. And deadly.”

“Understood.”

“And whatever you do, don’t get attached,” Haynes adds, standing. “These people will eat you alive if you let them.”

I stand up from my seat with a serious gaze locked on him, and say, “I don’t intend to, sir. If I have it my way, every last Romano will live out the rest of their lives in a federal prison.”

“Of that, we are in agreement,” he says, holding his hand out for me to shake.

I respectfully extend my hand and shake his on autopilot, only for Haynes to keep his grip on mine as he states, “This is a make-or-break case, Agent Graham. Do your job correctly, and no assignment will be off limits to you. Your career and notoriety in the Bureau will skyrocket. But fail—”

“I don’t fail,” I interrupt before he finishes his threatening remark.

“That’s all I needed to hear,” he replies, finally releasing my hand. “And good luck. You’ll need it.”