This morning, Carlo Enrico’s new lawyer informed them that he wanted to cut a deal. Amelia had felt certain the day would be productive and had jumped at the chance to get it in writing.
Carlo had been indicted for a laundry list of charges, due to his involvement in the child exploitation operation that his partners, Alton Dalessio and Matteo Ricci, had conducted out of the basement of a farm warehouse.
The men had kidnapped children and young family members of the workers who tended to the massive acreage, and then they’d filmed themselves as they took advantage of the helpless kids. Details were kept silent once the FBI’s Cyber Crimes Division had taken on the investigation.
The abductions had ostensibly served as collateral to keep the laborers in line, but Dalessio had taken an already despicable practice to an entirely new level of evil.
Now, however, Alton Dalessio and Matteo Ricci were dead—Matteo by his own hand, and Alton by a single slug from a twelve-gauge combat shotgun. A shot that Amelia had fired, leaving her wondering if it had been justified.
Stop it.
She clenched her hand into a fist at her side and shoved away the thoughts. The matter was settled in the eyes of the Bureau and the law, and ruminating over the fateful moment wouldn’t bring her any sense of resolution.
With Alton and Matteo dead, Carlo Enrico was left to shoulder the blame for the shady operations at the Kankakee County farm.
Carlo had sworn that he hadn’t touched any of the kids in that warehouse basement. He claimed he’d only cooperated with Alton and Matteo out of fear for his life.
Amelia didn’t buy a single one of Carlo’s lies.
She’d learned over the past few weeks that he had a penchant for sexual assault. She trusted him as far as she could throw him, and based on his broad-shouldered, muscular frame, that wasn’t far. Amelia was in good physical shape, exercised regularly, and practiced a variety of hand-to-hand combat techniques, but shot-putting grown men wasn’t part of her repertoire.
Though MCC Chicago was a towering twenty-three stories of solid beige concrete, Amelia and Zane had only been as high up as the third floor of the triangular building.
Not even Federal agents were allowed to traverse the veritable fortress without a corrections officer to chaperone, so a black-clad officer—Cole, his badge said—met them outside the interview room door.
“We need to meet with the warden as quickly as possible.”
According to Carlo’s new lawyer, a direct trip to the warden was the fastest way to have their soon-to-be informant placed in the jail’s protective custody. There, Carlo would be away from the general population, which included inmates who might have been affiliated with either the Leóne or D’Amato family.
Inmates who would want Carlo dead if they knew he’d cooperated with the Feds.
Though Carlo had changed lawyers and kept his intent to make a deal as quiet as possible, word of his betrayal would inevitably reach the Leónes. If Amelia and Zane didn’t move him out of gen-pop soon, the only witness who could identify the fourth man in Alton Dalessio’s child exploitation ring would be in grave danger.
To complicate matters, the man they sought, the unidentified man from the videos they’d recovered from the warehouse basement, was a detective in the Chicago Police Department.
Scratching the side of his scruffy face, the corrections officer raised his arm to check the time. “Warden’s in a meeting right now.” With a quick jerk of his head, Cole gestured for them to follow. “I’ll take you back to the lobby while you wait. The warden’s office is just off the lobby before the security checkpoint. He ought to be back in about thirty, if that works for the both of you.”
Pushing a piece of dark brown hair from her eyes, Amelia bit back a curse. Thirty minutes in a place like this could mean the difference between life and death. But what would cursing the CO do to help their cause? “That’s fine. We’ll wait.”
Cole turned to lead them down a hall and to a door Amelia assumed could withstand the force of a nuclear blast. Their footsteps echoed off the concrete like the walls of a tomb.
Cole offered a short greeting to the corrections officer manning the metal detector on the other side of the sturdy door, but Amelia and Zane remained silent. In the next room, a corrections officer stationed behind a pane of bullet-proof glass returned their service weapons.
By the time they finally reached the horseshoe-shaped desk at the back of a drab waiting area, Amelia was sure their half hour must have already elapsed. To her chagrin, however, a clock mounted to the gray drywall told her they still had another twenty-five minutes to go.
Rapping his knuckles against the sturdy wooden desk, Cole shifted his green eyes to a middle-aged fellow dressed in the same Bureau of Prisons uniform. Based on the man’s portly stature, his duties were primarily administrative.
Waving a hand at Amelia and Zane, Cole tilted his chin at his companion. “These two are here to see the warden when he gets back from his meeting.”
With a smile that exuded a grandfatherly sort of charm, the older corrections officer produced a clipboard as Cole offered a departing nod. His badge introduced him as Artie.
The corrections officer scanned the paper before he returned his gaze to Amelia and Zane. “Agents, good morning. Feel free to have a seat if you’d like to wait in here. Otherwise,” he pushed himself to his feet and pointed to a set of tinted glass double doors at the other end of the room, “there’s a coffee shop across the street if you need to grab some caffeine. It’s just a chain, but it sure beats the
