undercover agents – Vintage City Publishing

January 14, 2020

VICIOUS CIRCLE – CHAPTER SEVEN

In her bedroom, Audrey peered through the sliver of space between the curtains. She was a kidnapped princess, the quintessential damsel in distress, locked away in the tower of the evil king’s castle, waiting for the hero to ride up and rescue her. She watched one potential hero now, a knight in shining black sharkskin, as he talked to his faithful manservant.

She watched Dominic and Manny talk, not knowing what they were discussing but getting a general idea it was family-related by their body language. She watched the gaudy Corvette pull up and the two men stiffen. She watched Dominic exchange words with the blond, pony-tailed man she didn’t recognize and thought for a moment they would come to blows. From her perch, she was able to read the utter disdain on their faces.

November 10, 2019

VICIOUS CIRCLE – CHAPTER FIVE

“Manny, pull the car around. We’re leaving.”

Manny hadn’t noticed Dominic walk up. He was engrossed in a dirty joke Little John was telling. He looked at Dominic, then at Audrey. He stood up without a word, buttoned his jacket, and downed the rest of his coffee.

Dominic said, “Pull around the back to the kitchen. We’ll meet you there.”

“Excuse me?” Audrey said. “I have some packages in Joe’s car. We did some shopping earlier.” She wasn’t demanding about it, but Dominic got the impression she wasn’t asking either.

“Joe will bring them back. He’s only going to be another hour or two.”

“I’d like to have them now. There are two dresses that really should be hung up. I’d like to put the other items away before I go to bed.”

Manny glanced at Dominic, one eyebrow arched. Dominic stared back, an unspoken conversation between them.

“Get Joe’s driver to load them in the back seat,” Dominic said finally. “Then pull the car around.”

September 21, 2019

VICIOUS CIRCLE – CHAPTER THREE

NOW:

Paul checked himself in the rearview mirror and found it hard to recognize the man staring back. The blond hair was longer than his FBI days and stylishly cut, but an occasional errant strand of hair threatened to stage a rebellion. Contact lenses had replaced his wire-rimmed glasses.

Gone were the days of bargain basement clothing and do-it-yourself tailoring. Now it was Italian silk suits, usually gray or light blue, Egyptian cotton shirts, and calfskin shoes as soft as cashmere. No tie, just the top two buttons of his shirt left open to show off the gold chain and dangling Italian horn, lest anyone question his lineage.

He had been living this façade for almost a year, gradually easing into the Tagliani family lifestyle. It was important he didn’t rush things, that he allow his employers to decide how quickly he rose in the organization. If Paul took one misstep, he knew it could be fatal. And his employers were cautious.