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Blonde

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Chapter 1: Blonde (Anastasia's POV)

The club thrummed with a cacophony of deafening music, the bass reverberating beneath the ground, climbing up my toes and my legs, matching my rapid pulse. Overlapping conversations echoed, and neon lights danced over the drunken and frenzied crowd. 

"Is he here yet?" The question reached me over the ear-splitting cheers. 

Adjusting my earpiece, I continued shuffling behind the bar and serving customers. "No," I said quietly, "not yet." 

"We've been monitoring the club for weeks. He should be there by now." 

"He's late," I concluded, lifting my gaze to scan the club. "Actually, he's stalling." 

"Stalling?" 

My eyes drifted to the glass staircase located behind the bar, which led up to a large private room, a glass panel overlooking The Dove. "Mr Davis is already here," I said, "Garcia's probably stalling. Waiting to see if Davis will stick it out. He wants to know how badly they want the deal." Plastering a smile on my face, I served another drink to the customer before me. "Here you go, sir." 

Taking it from me, spilling nearly half its contents over my fingers, the man stumbled away. 

Sighing in annoyance, I wiped my hand clean, my movements slowing as he finally walked into the club. "He's here," I mumbled, my eyes trailing him until he headed upstairs, out of sight. I continued to bide my time behind the counter, keeping an eye on the crowd for anybody who stuck out. 

I wasn't just passing time, I was waiting for the order. 

"Anastasia," Marshall said, "go in." 

Spinning around to grab a tray, I grabbed a bottle of liquor, placed a few glasses on the tray, grabbed an ice bucket, and rounded the bar, heading upstairs. The guards stepped aside, scanning my uniform, and let me in. 

The conversation continued as I entered the room and approached the table, crouching down to set the tray. "You're worried for no reason, Davis," Mr Garcia chuckled, taking his seat. "I've been in this business for years, and not once have my girls been caught." 

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Garcia. What you're doing this time is different. You've gone too far. Sending all the girls at once? How can you be so sure you won't get caught?" 

"Who would question me? All it takes is one little blank check to shut the cops up." 

A pause passed through them. "And the FBI?" Mr Davis asked. "They almost caught you last time." 

"Well, they missed. They'll miss again." 

I kept my eyes down and continued preparing the drinks as slowly as I could, stalling for time. 

"There are certain lines we don't cross in this business, Garcia. You're not the first to smuggle drugs in and out of the city, but girls? You've gone too far. You're—" Mr Davis cut himself short at a sharp glance from Garcia. Glancing at me out of the corner of his eye, he continued in a softer voice, "It's sex trafficking. Do you have any idea what they'll do to you if you're caught?" 

"Then it's a good thing they can't catch me," he replied smugly. 

"Anastasia," Marshall demanded, "get out of there. Now." 

Rising to my feet slowly, holding the tray between my hands, I spun around and walked back downstairs, an annoyed breath escaping me. "We're wasting time," I said quietly, shifting the earpiece again out of discomfort. "If I stayed there, I would've found the location," I argued. 

"It's too dangerous to leave you there alone. If they catch you—" 

"I can defend myself, Marshall." 

"That's not the point." 

"That's precisely the point. I'm going back in." 

"Anastasia, no," he scolded. 

"We're losing key information," I persisted. "It'll take too long for the team to get here." Picking up another bottle of liquor off the racks, I moved toward the stairs again. "I'm going back in," I announced. 

"Anastasia, you're not going anywhere until we call for backup. That's an order." 

I glanced upstairs. "I thought we've established I'm not very good at following those," I said, tightening my grip on the tray and heading upstairs. 

"Anastasia—" 

A surge of annoyance passed through me at the static rumbling through the earpiece, and I tugged it out, pocketing it swiftly before entering the room again. 

The conversation stopped abruptly at my presence this time as both men turned to me with questioning eyes. 

I held up the bottle and smiled. "More whiskey?" 

"We didn't order another bottle," Mr Davis said skeptically. 

"It's on the house," I lied, taking a step forward. "May I?" 

"No," Davis snapped, "I said we didn't—" 

"Relax, Davis," Mr Garcia cut in. "She's just doing her job. Go ahead, doll." 

My eye nearly twitched at how he called me 'doll' while his eyes shamelessly roamed across my body, making my skin crawl. Kneeling at the table, I placed the bottle on the table and took it upon myself to make them a glass each. 

After a beat, their conversation resumed. "Where are they getting on?" Davis finally asked. 

Garcia answered, "The port. Red Hook terminal." 

Bullseye. 

Reaching for the holster strapped around my thigh beneath the skimpy black skirt, I fished out the knife, keeping my hand under the table and out of sight. 

"Listen, Blondie," Garcia said. 

My eye most certainly twitched at that nickname. An agitated sigh escaped me despite my attempts to suppress it. I lifted my eyes to his, my fingers tightening on the blade and the tray in my other hand. 

"What's your name?" he asked. 

"That's confidential," I answered. 

He let out a dark chuckle. "How old are you, doll?" 

"That's confidential, too." 

"Oh, come on, Blondie. Don't play hard to get." 

I stared at him for a beat. "That's the last time someone calls me that. You know," I paused, inching closer to his legs. "I'm tired of the blonde anyway. This disguise is getting old, don't you think?" 

Confusion flickered in his gaze, and I acted on it before he could comprehend. 

Lifting the knife, I jabbed it straight into his calf, his screams piercing the room as I tore it out, swiftly stabbing him in the thigh as he reached to grab me. Quickly moving to my feet, I steeled my grip on the knife and rounded his seat, lifting the bloody knife to his throat. 

When I looked up, everyone had frozen, even Davis and even the armed guards stationed inside the room. I let out a breath and lifted my free hand, scratching my temple lightly. 

This wig is seriously starting to get on my nerves. 

"Guns down, gentlemen," I sighed dramatically. When nobody moved, and all ten guns stayed pointed at me, I lifted my brows. "Put your fucking guns down before I slit his throat," I snapped, pressing the blade into his skin as he clutched his leg, crying out in agony. 

"Put the guns down!" Davis shouted, panic settling into him. All ten guards began lowering their guns, setting them at their feet. 

"Good boys," I teased, "now get out." 

"Go," Garcia choked out. 

My eyes darted to Davis as he began to rise. "Not you," I demanded, "you stay." When my hair itched for the third time, I called it quits and tugged off the blonde wig, shaking my hair out before I tossed it aside. 

Lifting my brows at Davis's confused expression, I asked, "Doesn't it suit me more? Brunettes do it better, Mr Davis. Plus, I'm fucking tired of that nickname." I glanced down at Garcia, the tip of the blade digging into his throat now. "Blondie," I mumbled with a light scoff. 

"Who are you?" Garcia spat out, trying to tilt his head back to look at me. He remained wary and unwilling to expose his throat to me completely. 

"She's Anastasia Vitalio," Davis breathed out shakily, "an FBI agent." 

I flashed him a smile. "At least one of you knows me." 

"What do you want?" Garcia demanded. "Why are you here?" 

"I want all twenty-five girls you were using as drug mules and then selling off to your friends in Philadelphia. Every single one." 

Reluctantly, he admitted, "The ship won't leave until tomorrow night. If you let me go... I'll hand over the girls." 

I shifted my weight from one foot to another. "Don't bother. We'll save the girls ourselves. You, on the other hand, sir..." I rested my elbow on the top of his seat and leaned down. "You're not going to survive this," I whispered. 

"Why are you doing this?" Davis asked. 

"You've gotten used to the FBI letting it slide every time you cross the line. I'm no saint. Even the FBI helps criminals like you. But when you cross the line, you leave us with no choice." My eyes dipped to Garcia. "Selling off young girls and forcing them to become your drug mules? That's going too far, Mr Garcia." 

Before he could utter another word, the door swung open, and a group of familiar faces swarmed in, fully armed and equipped to handle the situation from there. 

And then Marshall stepped in. On an average day, he was the ideal boss. Never barked harsh orders, never forced work upon me, but when I disobeyed those rare orders, he would get as furious as my father. They were certainly close, so I wouldn't doubt that my father would know about my antics before tomorrow morning. 

He stared at me expectantly, anger all over his face, and I slowly stepped back, holding my hands up in surrender. "Sorry, Marshall," I said, "I just couldn't let it go. Not again." 

He sighed in defeat, "Come with me." 

Passing the agents now taking over, I exited with him. 

"What are you wearing?" he huffed, glancing at my attire. 

"The uniform at The Dove," I deadpanned. 

Immediately, he shrugged his coat off, shoving it into my arms. "Wear it," he demanded. 

"You're worse than Dad," I muttered, tugging the coat on. 

"Are you okay? Are you hurt?" he asked, scanning me for any injuries. 

"Only my ego," I replied. "You didn't think I could handle this? Seriously?" 

"Your father told me not to put you on this case," he told me. 

"My father's not my boss, you are. You know how I work better than him." 

"Your father loses it if he sees so much as a scratch on you, Anastasia. Go home. Now. And call him to tell him you're okay." 

I dipped my head slightly. "Yes, sir." 

Trailing behind him slowly, we headed downstairs and then began working our way through the crowd, toward the exit. With the club being absolutely packed, it grew harder to pass through the stumbling crowd. "Excuse me," I mumbled, walking past someone. Then, "Sorry," while pushing past someone else. 

Until a large group of friends suddenly surged forward, pushing me back. I winced as someone stepped on my toes and gasped as I lost my footing, my breath getting caught as a rough hand firmly grabbed my wrist and tugged me to the side, out of the crowd's way. 

I caught my breath and spun around to thank the stranger, but he was already gone, leaving me with a glimpse of his suit and the back of his head. Blinking in confusion, I searched the crowd but lost him ultimately. 

"Anastasia!" Marshall called out. 

Continuing ahead, I left the club.

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Chapter 1

What do we think??? I'm so nervous about this book so pls keep me a little motivated in the comments

next ch: hiding