Vvvvvtttt!!

Virginia ducked at the sound of wood splintering. A loud crack followed, and she covered her head with her hands as glass and liquid rained down around her. Shit! Fortunately it was brief, the strong malty odor an indication as to what had been hit.

Great, now she smelled like a brewery.

Dropping her arms, she scanned the room but there was nobody. It had been a stray, just as she had thought. Shots echoed in the distance, confirmation that her team's chase had moved outside. Staying in her crouched position, her back pressed against the bar, she listened again for the soft scuffing she'd heard coming from behind it.

The popping sound of glass underfoot was a telltale sign that her suspect was on the move. Time to earn her paycheck. Staying low with her arms extended and gun leading the way, she inched along, taking extra care to slide her feet through the bits and pieces of broken bottles. At the edge of the bar, she froze and held her breath. Did a one, two, three in her head. Then darted around the corner . . . What the—?

Squatting on the ground with a box of bullets spilled out at his feet, a teenage boy had the cylinder of a snub-nosed revolver open, trying to load the thing with shaking hands.

"Police! Drop it!"

A full-body jerk sent the gun flying from his fingers. He lifted his head, eyes shifting between her weapon and the one that thudded to the floor in front of him.

He slowly raised his hands in the air.

"Good choice." Virginia rushed to his side keeping her head down. Putting one knee to the ground, she took a long look at the boy.

Jesus, they kept getting younger and younger. Or maybe it only seemed that way as time passed and she grew more cynical, sick and tired of seeing these kids sucked in and manipulated by false promises. She knew most of the troubled teens in the area but couldn't place this one. And based on the side part, polo shirt, and plaid shorts, she would have expected skipping class to be the worst of his offenses. Apparently not.

"Hands behind your head," she ordered.

He did as he was told, arms trembling.

She frowned. "What are you doing here, son?"

"None of your business," he hissed.

Pressing her lips together, she gave him a slow shake of her head, an I'm-not-too-proud-of-you look that always worked on her daughter.

He shifted one hand up to flip her off.

"Nice." Reaching down, she pocketed the bullets and threw the classic Colt into the open drawer nearby—assuming that was where it had come from—then slammed the thing shut as she peeked over the bar. All was quiet now. She stood and holstered her own gun, wondering what to do about the kid at her feet.

She hadn't expected this. They'd been staking out the restaurant for weeks, planning the bust for a Monday night knowing the place would be closed, the element of surprise on their side. These guys didn't seem all that surprised. She and the five men she was leading had been met with gunfire as soon as they had crossed the threshold of the building.

This felt more like an ambush.

Virginia looked around the lavish dining room, from the fully stocked wine cellar by the kitchen to the floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace near the entrance. The Gondola was popular among those who could afford it, a linen tablecloth, soft candlelight, jacket-required kind of joint. The average patron, however, had no idea about the criminal activity happening right under the same roof. All bets and payoffs were made out of the back room-the same room all the suspects had just made a beeline into.

Her partner came busting through the doorway marked PRIVATE. Jack swung his head left, then right, searching for her as he let go of the man he was half-dragging. With a stumble the guy went down to the floor, and Jack stepped over him, warning, "Don't make me chase you." Although from the looks of his perp, he wasn't going anywhere.

"Jack."

Wheeling around, he spotted her. "They ran out the back. There was a car waiting." As he headed over, he kicked at a toppled stool and it clattered out of his way. "The place has been cleaned out." He thrust a thumb over his shoulder. "All we have is this guy—a nobody."

They both took another gander at the man on the ground holding his bloodied leg and moaning in pain. Jack was right. They were back at square one. The Chilvatis would simply move their operation to a different location without missing a single bet.

"And this kid." She pointed down.

Jack leaned his chest over the wood bar top to eyeball the kid at her feet. "Who the hell is he?"

"I don't know." She shrugged as she looked down at the boy. "What's your name?"

"F.U. Pigs."

"Very polite."

"Up yours."

"He's Simon Spinelli."

Virginia's head whipped around to the injured man. "He's Spinelli's kid?" she asked, hearing the thirst in her own voice.

"I didn't know Spinelli even had a kid," Jack muttered.

"You idiot," the teen yelled to his cohort. "Shut the fuck up."

"That's it." Grabbing his collar, she lifted him up to a standing position with one quick yank.

He tried to twist out of her grip. "Hey, let go. Police brutality!"

"Get over it. If your parents controlled you a little better, they'd be the ones holding you by the scruff of the neck."

The kid gave up the struggle, but the defiance remained in his eyes. "Like your job?" he spat. "Want to keep it? He can get you fired you know."

"I'd like to see him try." The threat irked her. In fact, everything about the Chilvatis irked her, including the corporate empire they hid behind—run by one Mr. Mark Spinelli, CEO.

But beyond the big mouth and icy stare, she sensed sadness in the boy. She wasn't about to use him as a pawn in their fight. Saving her lectures for his father, she reached for her cuffs. He seemed resigned to his fate after she slapped on the metal, matching her stride when she led him toward the exit.

Jack's voice called to her over the tables and chairs. "Where are you going?"

"I'm going to pay Spinelli a little visit."

Mr. Nobody on the floor choked out a laugh before offering his opinion. "You don't just drive up to Spinelli's house. Not unless you have a death wish."

"I think I have a little protective persuasion right here," she shouted back as she stepped out the door into the sticky, early-evening humidity, still gripping the teen by his upper arm.

"Don't count on it," Simon mumbled.

Virginia held the top of his head as she guided him into the back seat of the black and white. She knew where she was going. With ten years' experience under her belt, she knew where all the key figures in the crime family lived.

Twenty minutes later she arrived at Palos Verdes, an upscale neighborhood in Southwestern Los Angeles County. She switched off the flashers upon entering the subdivision—no need to have all the uptight neighbors staring out their windows.

A concrete wall surrounded the Spinelli property, but she could see the mansion in the distance, its white exterior all lit up like a national monument, the two-story columns of the front portico looking immense, even from the road. The driveway was long and lined with trees, their branches stretching out over the pavement. She was willing to bet there wasn't a dead leaf to be found among the lot of them. Making the turn, she headed toward the gatehouse that sat one-quarter of the way in. The gate was wide open, but the two men standing guard on either side of it eliminated any everybody-is-welcome illusions.

"Company . . ." she muttered, pressing down on the gas.

The guard on the left moved to the middle of the driveway and flashed his palm.

Leaning her head out the open window, she yelled, "Sorry, pal, lady driver!"

When he didn't budge, she honked. By the time the man realized she meant business, he had to dive to the side to avoid getting hit, ending up back on his feet after a skillful tuck and roll.

"You're insane," the boy spouted from the back.

Taking a deep breath, she kept an eye on the guard in the rearview mirror, seeing him run into the gatehouse and grab a two-way.

As she pulled up to the house, two other men came out to greet her. She parked in front of the large fountain that sat in the middle of the driving circle at the top of the driveway. Arcs of water reached up to a bowl held by three cherubs, the overflow shooting out of rosebud mouths. Underwater lights provided illumination, changing color every few seconds. The thing was so big, the splashing water drowned out the sound of her motor. Why are the rich always so pompous?

Leaving the kid where he was, she stepped out of the car and approached the two men. "Ahhh, the welcoming committee," she drew out, noticing the handgun each held pointed to the ground.

The bigger of the two walked forward, right into her path. "What can we all do for you, Officer?"

"I'm here to see Mr. Spinelli." She kept moving, intending to walk around him.

He sidestepped, blocking her way, forcing her to come to a halt. He was huge, at least six-foot-seven. Virginia rarely felt tiny at five-foot-ten, but this guy had her feeling frickin' dainty—not the look to be going for when barging onto someone's property uninvited.

Intimidation, however, didn't have to be all about size. She was a cop after all. Intimidation was part of the job description. She glanced down at his hand. "You got a permit for that gun?"

"You got a warrant?"

Well, so much for that theory.

Frowning, he leaned in and sniffed the air between them. "Have you been drinking?"

"No! I was—" Frustration closed her mouth. Why was she explaining herself to him?

She was still glaring up at him, wondering what her next move should be, when a deep voice behind him said, "Gentlemen, let her be."

The muscle-bound barricade in front of her eased up, taking a few steps back. With a shift of her head, she peered around him to find the boss himself leaning against the frame of the front door. She had never met Spinelli face-to-face before, but she had seen plenty of pictures of him. He was the one who made the public appearances for the family, whenever and wherever needed, a celebrity of sorts in the twisted world of tabloid news. Close to her age, he was young to be so high up in the Chilvati chain of command. Surprised to find him standing right there, she could do nothing but stare.

Suddenly straightening, he made his way down the steps, walking toward them with his hands in the pockets of his jeans. He moved with the confident grace of someone used to getting their own way. Although not quite as big as his armed guard, there was still a helluva lot of man coming at her, triggering an instinctive urge to step back. Don't, she said to herself, kicking her chin up as he narrowed the distance between them.

As much as she hated to admit it, he was easy on the eyes. Dark, almost black hair was layered and kept at a medium length in a tousled style that curled disobediently at his neck. Eyes were heavy-lidded, giving him a sultry look, as if sex were never far from his thoughts—which, given his reputation with women, was probably the case. The white shirt was likely designer but he wore it with a casual indifference, untucked with the sleeves pushed up. He made the whole look seem effortless, as if he had just rolled out of bed like that.

After having sex, popped into her head. Her cheeks warmed.

What was she doing? Snap out of it. Yeah, there were a lot of women out there who liked that type. It would never be her choice, though—waaaay too much work—dark and dangerous grew a little monotonous when most of each day was spent cleaning up their messes.

Passing his men, Spinelli came to a stop in front of her.

Blue, she thought, holding his steady, impassive gaze. His eyes were blue. Deep blue. Framed with impossibly thick lashes that—

He was the first to look away, offering a view of his flawless profile as he dipped his chin to his shoulder, the command intended for the men behind him. "Leave us."

They backed up in unison before spinning around and making their way inside the house. He waited for the door to close before turning his head back to her.

"They are so obedient," she said.

Ignoring the sarcasm, he ran his eyes over her, taking a tour of her body as though it were a dinner menu to select from. He lingered on her T-shirt, and she was pretty damn sure it wasn't the word POLICE plastered across the gray fabric that held his attention.

Running out of patience, Virginia brought her hands up to her hips, forgetting about all the equipment she had to maneuver around. After shifting from spot to spot, she finally gave up and crossed her arms over her chest instead, miffed that all the pissed-off posturing had only made her appear flustered.

Because she wasn't. At all. In the least.

"You have to forgive my men. They are not used to cars ignoring them and racing up the driveway. It makes them nervous."

"It's not just any car," she said with an authoritative air, trying to regain some footing amid the undercurrent of animosity that flowed between them.

"Yes"—he glanced over at the standard-issue LAPD cruiser—"that makes them even more nervous, I'm afraid."

His expression gave nothing away, not even fazed by, or at least not acknowledging the fact that he now knew Simon was sitting in the back seat of her car. Was he an uncaring parent? Or was he the overly indulgent type whose kid could do no wrong, even with the evidence shoved in their faces? She'd met more than her fair share of both.

Just get to the point. She cleared her throat and refocused, trying to ignore his hypnotic stare. "I came from a raid up in Southeast at The Gondola. You know anything about that?"

A flicker of surprise shot across his face, but it was gone in an instant. "As a matter of fact, I do. Decent food, experienced chef, nice ambiance. Limited selection, though. Personally, I'd only give it a four out of five, but that's good enough for most people."

Arrogance—another trait she could do without.

"I have your son in the car. He was caught trying to load a gun."

"Maybe you should let him out so he can explain it to me himself."

What Virginia really wanted to do was let loose with what she thought of him, but she did as he asked, heading over to her car with the sound of his footsteps close behind and Simon watching them through the window. She helped the kid slide out and undid the handcuffs. He rubbed at his wrists, lifted his nose in the air, and sauntered over to stand beside his father.

"You should keep better tabs on him. He came very close to being shot today. Next time he may not be so lucky. Parental involvement is important for children his age. They need boundaries. Too much freedom can lead to trouble." Realizing she was coming across like a meddling in-law, she cut off the sermon.

"You done?" Spinelli's tone was sharp.

Feeling both awkward and annoyed, she could only nod.

"Well, Officer . . ." Dark brows arched high on his forehead.

"It's Lieutenant . . . Robins."

"Lieutenant Robins," he said, giving a slight bow of his head. Then he paused, as if weighing his next words. "For your information, not that it's any of your business, Simon is my nephew, who has come to live with me for a period of time. His situation is . . . complicated."

Fixing that all-consuming gaze on the teen standing beside him, he added, "However, he is not supposed to be out of the house without my permission, so I apologize for his behavior." There was a hint of menace in his words, the apology doing double duty as a reprimand.

Simon dropped his head, making Virginia wonder if her hand-delivery of the boy had been a little on the selfish side. "He's a kid. They all make mistakes. Whether or not they learn from them is what really matters."

Spinelli turned his attention back to her. "I can assure you that I will deal with him appropriately." A half smile eased onto his face. "I owe you a debt of gratitude. Perhaps I'll be able to return the favor someday."

I'm not interested in your kind of favors, pal. "Just keep better control of him," she snapped before turning and making her way to the other side of the car. "Consider this a warning. I won't be so easy on him next time," she tacked on for good measure.

"Yes . . . Lieutenant."

She opened the door and glared over her shoulder before getting in, seeing the smug smile still on his face. "Asshole," she muttered as she started the car.

She completed the circle around the god-awful fountain and headed down the driveway at a much slower pace. The man she had nearly run down by the gatehouse tracked her approach with a dark, penetrating stare. Already irritated, his sneer did nothing to improve her mood.

"See ya," she shouted.

He waited until she was passing him to offer his own version of goodbye. "Bitch," he snarled at her.

Although knowing it unprofessional, she couldn't stop herself when she punched her arm out the window and raised her middle finger for his personal viewing pleasure.

) l (

Mark watched the car pull away, her face floating in his memory like an afterimage burned into his retinas. Glaring eyes. Clenched jaw. Pursed lips. Hell, for a second there, he'd half expected to see steam coming out of her ears.

She was, without a doubt, the best looking cop he had ever laid eyes on.

Simon muttered something under his breath.

"Go inside," Mark ordered, his concentration fixated on her vehicle. "I'll deal with you later."

"But—"

He hit his nephew with a look that must have reflected his impatience.

"Whatever." Simon turned away, shoulders slumping, and ambled toward the house.

Smart move, Mark thought. Maybe he has some common sense after all. He refocused on the lieutenant's departure. Her car was passing through the gate, leaving the property. He laughed quietly as he watched her paying her respects to his guard.

END OF CHAPTER ONE

A new one posted every Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday.

Don't forget to leave a comment. Find a typo? Let me know. Fresh eyes are a great tool, and I'd appreciate the help!