TRAPPED WITH THE MAFIA BOSS
“Information? You’re the CIA—don’t you know everything?”
His laugh is dry, hollow, a sound that freezes me. “Not with him, not enough.”
He paces, slow, boots scuffing, each step a tick of a bomb. My pulse races, dread coiling tight.
“And if I say no?” I challenge, chin up, fear clawing my gut.
He stops, turns, locks eyes—dark, unyielding. “Seven million, four hundred and thirty-two thousand, three hundred and four dollars.”
My brow furrows, lost. “What’s that mean?”
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