Page 6 of Vicious Behaviors (The Next Vicious Generation #3)

Isobel

After receiving my undercover package, complete with fake ID, burner phone, and a few other Bureau-issued toys, the first thing I did was toss most of it in the trash.

Special Agent Haynes, my supervisor, seems convinced the cover they’ve cooked up for me is the best way to infiltrate the Romanos’ world.

Me? I have my doubts. Serious ones.

According to the Bureau, they want me to become Sister Isabelle Moretti, part-time nun, part-time substitute teacher at Sacred Heart Academy. The plan is to make connections through Marcello Romano’s younger siblings, hoping that somehow, I’ll work my way closer to him.

Cute idea in theory. But in practice? A damn joke.

Look, I’ve got nothing against nuns. God bless ‘em, but I very much doubt that someone like Marcello would spill all his secrets over holy water and English Lit worksheets. Not only that, but if Haynes’s suspicions are correct and Marcello really did kill a priest, then the last person he’d cozy up to is a nun.

Especially one lurking around his younger brothers and baby sister like a damn creeper.

There has to be a better way in. A smarter, easier way. I just have to find it. That’s why I ditched the ID, the habit, and the whole sanctified charade before Haynes could say ‘Amen.’

Besides, the idea was not only ludicrous, it was also damn risky.

I’ve lived in Chicago most of my life. South Side born and bred.

That was until college took me to Georgetown, and the U.S.

Army and Quantico shaped me into the woman I am today.

The risk of running into someone who recognized me while I was using a made-up name accompanied by a nun’s habit, no less, was just too high.

All it would take is one old friend from my past—or even a vague high school acquaintance—squinting too long at my face while dressed like Sister Lies-A-Lot, and I’d be as good as dead.

One wrong smile in the wrong neighborhood, and the whole op would go up in smoke.

No. My cover has to be airtight. And the only way to do that is to keep it as close to the truth as possible. Hence why I’m sticking to my real name and my real-life backstory. The public parts of it, anyway.

If Marcello digs into my past, which I’m sure he will, he’ll find exactly what I want—just a local girl who left for college, then bounced around D.C.

doing odd jobs before joining the army to get some real-world experience.

He will see that I received an honorable discharge after completing two tours in Afghanistan and eventually came home to start fresh.

I don’t have any social media presence to speak of since that’s the number one rule Quantico drills into us from the jump.

And as for my time working for the Bureau?

There’s no trace of it. Undercover agents like me don’t leave footprints since we aren’t supposed to even exist. We’re trained to be ghosts. Just like him. Just like Marcello.

Now, all I need is an angle. A way in. And wouldn’t you know it, but I may just have found one in a ‘Help Wanted’ sign in the dust-covered window of DeLuca’s gym, of all places.

From the intel Haynes gave me, Marcello spends most of his free time in this joint, which is owned by Carmine DeLuca, a former underboss for Salvatore Romano.

Though never prosecuted, Carmine was notorious for being one of Big Sal’s favorite capos and a force to be reckoned with.

No one dared to defy him, and though he’s long retired from the life, he still holds influential ties to the famiglia .

No surprise there, since his only son, Giovanni DeLuca, is Vincent Romano’s consigliere, posing as the Romano family’s lawyer.

And if the rumor mill is right, he even shares residence in the Romano home, wherever that may be.

This is it. This is my way in. I have to go right to the source.

Parked across the street from DeLuca’s Gym, I stay in my car with the engine off and the window cracked open just enough to let the city noise drift in.

The wind cuts in through the window, laced with snow and that raw Chicago chill that never quite lets up during winter.

I can hear someone shouting over a parking spot and a dog barking in the distance, while the L train rumbles overhead as if warning me to consider all my options.

But I’ve made up my mind. Whatever job DeLuca is offering, it’s as good as mine.

I glance at the rearview mirror and start pumping myself out and mutter, “Okay, Izzie, let’s get our stories straight.

You’re a Southie native who just moved back from overseas, looking for work.

Play on your military experience as your qualifications to get the job.

Remember, you also need to have flexible hours since you can’t exactly tail Marcello if you’re working full time in the gym.

Say that you’re taking your master’s degree in psychology during the day and prefer to make up your own schedule. ”

Not exactly the truth, but close enough to pass.

If I play this right and land the job, I’ll need Haynes to pull some strings and get me into a January-start program at UChicago, DePaul, Loyola, or Adler. Any of those schools should have a solid online program, with maybe just a few mandatory in-person classes required.

I’ve always wanted to go back for my master’s, and if doing it gives me the perfect cover to get close to Marcello, getting the degree will just be the cherry on top when I finally take him down.

I check the fake résumé on my phone one last time. It’s stitched together with just enough credibility to hold up, but not enough to draw attention. Then I take a breath, shove my nerves down, and get out of the car.

The instant I step inside and head up the flight of stairs, the gym’s atmosphere hits me like a punch, thick with the smell of metal and men. The pungent scent of sweat-soaked gloves and towels, chalk, testosterone, and old ghosts takes a moment to acclimate to.

DeLuca’s Gym isn’t just a place to train. It’s a monument to legacy. The kind that hasn’t changed much since the eighties. Every photo on the wall bleeds with history. Outfit history. Tough men. Broken men. Dead men.

A couple of guys are sparring in the ring while others limit their time to punching bags that swing on their chains like lazy pendulums. The clang of weights echoes off the concrete like a heartbeat, though you might miss the sound due to the heavy metal blaring through the gym’s speakers.

A shaved-head brute manning the counter looks up, towel slung over his shoulder, eyeing me as if I were a question he can’t quite grasp the answer to.

He’s all muscle and no neck. The kind of guy who looks like he was built by protein powder and bad decisions.

His thick neck struggles to balance a head that’s almost too comically small, and his biceps look as if they have their own zip codes.

He’s the perfect cliché of a gym rat, and right now, the last hurdle I must clear to get to DeLuca.

“Um… Miss? You lost or somethin’?” he finally asks once he’s managed to string a sentence together.

“Not at all. I’d like to see the owner of this fine establishment, please. Is he here?” I ask, tugging off my winter gloves and parka. The place is a damn furnace—eighty degrees, maybe more. I’m sweating already, and all I’ve done is walk through the door.

“You mean ol’ man Carmine?” he asks, surprised.

“If that’s his name, then that’s exactly who I’m here to see,” I retort, feigning ignorance, since I’m not supposed to know anything about DeLuca beyond his last name displayed on the neon sign outside.

The desk clerk continues to glare at me, his forehead creasing as if he were sure I’ve lost all my marbles just by stepping inside this gym.

Part of me gets where he’s coming from. After a quick perusal of the place, it’s safe to say that I’m the only woman here. No wonder he thinks I’m in the wrong place. I would, too, if I were in his shoes.

“So is he in? Can I see him?” I insist. Otherwise, we’ll be here all day.

“Yeah… okay,” he mutters, clearly not sold on the idea of bringing me to his boss.

However, he turns and leads me toward the back of the gym anyway, past punching bags and weight benches, down a hallway that smells like sweat and old tape.

At the end of it, he knocks once on a closed door, then pushes it open without waiting for a reply, and asks, “Boss? You busy?”

From behind the desk, a voice grumbles, “What is it, Rico?” He doesn’t even look up, too focused on the paperwork spread out in front of him.

“It’s… uh… this lady… um… says she’s here to see you.”

DeLuca’s office is bigger than I expected, but strictly no-frills. A steel desk dominates the center, while filing cabinets crowd the corners. The walls are lined with yellowed fight posters and a few old medals that look like they haven’t been touched since the Reagan administration.

When DeLuca finally glances up, we both take stock of the other.

However, it seems like I’m more impressed by him than he is by me.

Forearms like tree trunks, DeLuca has his shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows to showcase his muscled form.

For a man who is at least a couple of years into his seventies, he still has a full head of hair, all silver and slicked back tight, and the frame of a man who not only owns a gym but also uses it on the daily.

When his eyes land on my face and pause for a brief moment, I first see suspicion flit across his face and then curiosity.

“Good afternoon, Mr. DeLuca. I promise I won’t take up much of your time,” I greet, stepping into the room and extending my hand for him to shake. “My name is Isobel Graham, but please feel free to call me Izzie. Everyone does.”

“Carmine DeLuca,” he retorts, giving my hand a quick shake. “And how may I help you today, Miss Graham?”