THE INFORMANT

JUNE 4, 1999 — FRIDAY

EXT. CASA DELLE ARAGOSTE, CITY ISLAND, NY - NIGHT

The rancid stench of fish carcass and rotten produce mask the fresh, maritime air New Yorkers seek. Spring has passed and it hasn't rained for days, but the alley is wet from being hosed down by an underage and underpaid busboy working his first summer job. I pass two crates — makeshift stools — surrounded by stubbed cigarettes and one unsafely discarded syringe. The journey to the kitchen's back entrance is the kind of muggy experience that makes anyone feel like the humidity is clinging onto one's skin. And in this outfit, there's a lot of skin to cling to.
I pull the black skirt to my hips to get the hem to hit just above the knee, but my hips flare out too far for the skirt not to ride up my waist. One step forward and it inches up, the night air brushing on newly bared skin. I'm not used to this much leg exposed, nor am I used to the first three buttons of my shirt undone. However, I have no say in my wardrobe when I'm supposed to be a waitress filling in for another girl with a nasty stomach bug. I have to wear the uniform; and customers like it when their surf and turf is served with a side of female objectification.
There's static in my ear and a tightness around my chest. I run my thumb along the collar of my shirt and take a deep breath before I push the door to the kitchen. Immediately, the noise and smells of a restaurant kitchen fill my senses. Casa Delle Aragoste is a family seafood restaurant at the far end of the island. The glowing sign out front boasts fresh Maine lobster and classic Italian favorites. It's a Saturday night in early June and the parking lot is filling up with families celebrating their sons' and daughters' college graduations. Tonight, however, the biggest celebration will be held in a private room with an exceptional view of the Long Island Sound.

"You Patsy's replacement?"
I turn to see a line cook eyeing me from head to toe. He sharpens a knife with great speed and without interruption to his ogling.
"Yup," I answer. The less I say, the less chances the lie is exposed.
"You're late."
"I'm sorry —"
"— I don't give a fuck, dahlin'," he says with a teasing grin. "Just get that tush over to Sandy at the pickup station. She's in charge of tellin' ya where to go. I think you're only supposed to be workin' the Fiorello engagement party, so it should be easy enough for ya."
"Right… Thank you."
He licks his lips, and with a small chuckle, returns to the San Marzano tomatoes laid out on his station. "No, dahlin', thank you."

As I approach the food pickup station, I take mental notes of the kitchen's layout and the faces of the staff. Cooks are running around with hot plates and serving trays, setting them down on a stainless steel ledge. A red-faced chef is yelling out orders before tacking the slips down a sharp, metal spike. Dressed in the same skimpy black-and-white uniform, waitresses pick up the finished orders with the expertise and precision of an assembly line. Standing in the middle of the chaos is a middle-aged, Italian-American woman with a perm and a brass name tag that reads: Sandy.
"Sandy?" I try to get her attention, but she's in the middle of yelling over the chef calling out orders. "Hi, I'm Olivia B-Bateman. Here to pick up Patsy's shift."
She turns to me, her penciled brows knitting together, then she slaps her forehead. "Right! Right! She said you work at that steakhouse — Medium Raw, is it? You ever serve private parties over there?"
"Sure. All the time."
"Excellent." She lays her hand on my shoulders and steers me toward a less hectic corner of the kitchen. She hands me a pen, notepad, and the restaurant's eight-page menu. "Look, the Fiorello party is scheduled to arrive in half an hour, but usually they run a little late. Brush up on the menu, familiarize yourself with our specials, and maybe sort out your hair before they arrive —"
"— What's wrong with my hair?" I ask, smoothing down the crown of my ponytail.
"Nothing. Just could use a little more body," she says, fluffing her own box-dyed nest of hair spray and mousse. "Anyway, I'm sure you know what to do. If you need anything, I'll be at the front of the restaurant — Hey!" she yells, her arm raised in the air to point at a confused sixteen-year-old. "What I tell you about sayin' 'behind yooou' when you're walkin' behind the cooks?"
When Sandy leaves, I prop myself against the wall, trying to be as invisible as possible. I study the menu but can't get past the first few appetizers before I'm distracted by the faint buzz in my right ear. Tucking a few stray strands behind my ear, I take the opportunity to adjust the flesh-colored earpiece. The buzz turns into a high-pitched squeal and I try my best to stop from cringing.
Then a familiar voice comes on. "Everything all right, Liv?" asks my partner, Elliot Stabler. He's sitting in the back of an unmarked van along with Detectives Munch and Tutuola. "Your sound just turned off for a sec."
Tucking my chin down, I spot the mic taped to my chest, its wire running down my cleavage to a thin radio strapped to my lower back. "Mmhmmm…"
"Remember, code word is 'Puff Daddy' if anything goes awry," Elliot says as I hear Fin's stifled chuckles.
"Mmmhmmm…"

Over the next forty minutes, guests of the Fiorello engagement party begin to arrive at the restaurant. My knowledge of the menu remains scant, but my hair is teased to a fuller ponytail. One of the waitresses I'll be working with tonight has advised — no, instructed — me to unbutton another button of my blouse. Ensuring the mic stays unseen, I politely follow her direction.
"Once the guests of honor arrive, we'll make our way in and take drink orders. Cool?"
"Sounds good," I reply.
We watch as Sandy, who's working as the maitre d', crosses names on the leather-bound reservation book. Families stream into the restaurant. They're all dressed to the nines — some of the kids still wearing the caps and gowns they wore earlier at their graduations. The doors open and one man steps inside. Meadow, the waitress beside me nudges me with her shoulder. "Hottie at twelve o'clock."
It's more like two o'clock but I refrain from making the correction. The man who's just walked in is, indeed, a hottie — a very young, very lost-looking hottie. He cranes his neck, above the other heads huddled around the entrance; he's in search of a familiar face. Instead, he catches my eye and he lingers for a second longer than what's permissible between two strangers.
My cheeks suddenly feel warm.
"You think he's going to be at the engagement party?"
"I don't know," I say even though a small part of me hopes he will be.
Minutes pass before Francis Fiorello and his bride-to-be, Claire Ashby, arrive fashionably late with a pair of saccharine grins — tell-tale signs of being so in love punctuality is an afterthought.
Meadow starts to move and I follow suit, stuffing my pen and notepad into the pocket of my mini skirt. I follow her down the narrow spaces between tables in the main dining room, and up a couple of steps toward a more intimate seating area with candles and fresh flowers. She keeps walking and doesn't spare a look to see if I'm following her. I take the chance to adjust the earpiece and straighten the wire through my shirt.
We're steps away from the doors to the private function room when I feel a hand grip my arm and pull me into a dark, dark room.

"What the —" A hand muffles the words from my mouth.
"Shhh…"
"Pff Ddy—" I say, but his hand presses more firmly over my mouth as his other hand loosens around my arm. I try to make sense of the scene before me but it's too dark and the only light filtering in is through the edges of the door, and all I can make out is the outline of the abductor's face. He has a high forehead, a perfectly sloped nose, knifelike cheekbones, and a jaw with such sharp angles he could be a study of geometric art.
I gasp — warm air blowing into the skin of his palm. It's the 'hottie at twelve o'clock' and, this time, he really is at twelve o'clock and I might as well be there with him when our bodies are so dangerously close. If I take a deep breath and exhale, I'm sure my breasts will brush up against his own chest.
"Listen," he whispers straight to my ear, his voice a deep rumble that can't be picked up by the wire. "I know who you are and who you work for. The second you set foot into that room, you'll have two men twice your size doing a body search. They'll pat you down, find that mic pack under your shirt and that earpiece that doesn't even match the color of your skin. They'll figure out you're a cop and they'll handle the situation before any of your buddies can come in to back you up." He slowly retrieves the hand covering my mouth and he pulls back to note my reaction. It's the first time I get a good look at his dark, focused eyes.
I press two fingers down on my breastbone to obscure the sound. For some reason, this strange man has just warned me about heightened security, possibly saving my life in the process. "Why are you doing this?"
He shakes his head. "Whatever you're looking for, you're not going to find here."
"What do you think I'm looking for."
His mouth curls into a smile and his white teeth catch the dim light.
"You said you know who I am —"
"— I know you're a cop," he answers quickly. "FBI, DEA, it doesn't matter. I'd rather not see you get caught."
I feel my whole palm pressed firmly on my chest and I can feel my heart racing. Who is this man? If he knows what's happening behind those doors, why does he want to protect me?
"Look, this is an engagement dinner with family and friends — that's all there is to it." He lowers his chin so our gazes are almost level. He swallows, and I watch as his Adam's apple disappears for a brief second. Suddenly, my throat feels dry and my skin is glowing red with warmth. When he speaks, I can feel his breath ghosting over my face and I can almost taste the peppermint on his tongue. "You're better off saving this cute, lil' undercover outfit for another day."
"I don't buy any of this." I wave a finger across the narrowing space between us, ignoring the amused expression on his distractedly handsome face. "I know you didn't pull me into this — this —"
"— Linen closet."
"— This linen closet so you can protect me. I know you're protecting the Fiorello Five."
He puts his hands up and his grin spreads across his face. "You got me, officer."
"It's detective."
"Apologies, detective."
My ear is ringing again and I hear Elliot's voice asking me what's going on. They can probably hear the muffled sounds from the wire and, knowing my partner, he's probably got his gun pulled from his holster ready to barge in here. I lower my chin to speak close to the uncovered mic, "I'm fine, El."
"Who's El?"
I narrow my eyes at my abductor and set my palm over my breastbone. "If you work for the Fiorello Five, why are you preventing me from getting caught? Wouldn't you want to see your friends 'handle' me as you so kindly put it?"
His jaw tenses. He doesn't answer the question but he turns his head to the closed door, and in the process, his chest briefly brushes up against my right breast. I inhale — inaudible anywhere else but this confined space. I'm about to lean back to create more space between us when he surprises me; he takes as much of a step back as humanly possible. His back is pressed up against the shelf and I watch as his shoulders fall in a heavy breath.
"I gotta go. Someone's probably looking for me."
"Wait," I tell him, one hand reaching out to grip his bicep. I feel the hard muscle through his shirt and my heart picks up like a runner on its last stretch. "You didn't answer my question."
"I don't work for the Fiorello Five," he says as he looks me straight in the eye. I don't think I've ever heard anyone say anything with so much conviction that I could doubt it for even a second. His tongue sweeps over his bottom lip as he glances over to my fingers pressing into the sleeve of his shirt. When he looks back to me, his dark eyes are glazed over and more intent than they've ever been. "And, no, I don't want any of those guys —" he bites his lip and releases with a sigh. "— handling you."
The door pushes open, flooding the closet with a blinding light. My fingers lose the sensation of cotton and muscle and just as fast as he pulls me in, he's out.

INT. UNMARKED POLICE VAN, CITY ISLAND, NY - NIGHT

I never make it inside the function room where Francis and Claire are celebrating their engagement. I don't even get to see the shocked and confused look on Sandy's face when I disappear through the back door. I do remember the line cook yelling at me, asking me if I was leaving to go to my other job as a stripper. "Dahlin, those tits are wasted in a restaurant!"

I'm in the back of an unmarked police van near the bridge between Pelham Bay Park and City Island. Fin and Munch are sitting in an unmarked sedan just a few spots away, leaving me and Elliot to debrief what just happened in the restaurant.
Pulling the earpiece off, I chuck it on the table where the radio is situated. "I'm telling you, he wasn't with the Fiorello Five."
"Come on, Liv. You actually believe him?"
I remember how he looked me in the eye when he said it. He was so serious, but I could also tell there was a tinge of sadness in his delivery. I can tell Elliot what I saw and what I heard to try to persuade him, but I know better. He'll say I'm doing it again — letting my intuition cloud what's sensible and easily observable.
"You should have called for us."
"Puff Daddy," I say, rolling my eyes. I untuck my shirt and reach underneath to strip the bandage holding the wire and radio in place. "I had it under control."
"You think you had it under control," he corrects, as he helps me remove the pins holding the bandage in place. I lift my shirt just below my bra line and he doesn't even appear embarrassed in the slightest. His fingertips brush over my skin as he unhooks the metal from the fabric, and then just like that, his hands are back to his sides. "He could've had a gun."
"But he didn't."
"You played fast and loose with your life."
"Hardly," I say, rolling my eyes again. I know he hates it when I do so I keep doing it — anything to get a reaction out of him. "He pulled me into a linen closet and warned me that I'd be in danger if I walked into that room. I'd argue my decision to bail was actually playing it safe."
"I don't trust this guy. Why would he be at the boss' son's engagement party if he wasn't part of the family business? Frankie Fiorello has gone from associate to soldier faster than anyone else in the history of organized crime. Think about it."
"Maybe you're right, but you wouldn't have wanted me to take the risk anyway."
Elliot steeples his fingers over his mouth and exhales. Sinking down to the bench, he hunches forward and his mouth twists into a frown. "Fine. Whatever."
"My body could be floating down the East River by now."
"Don't." He raises a hand to stop me.
I take the spot beside him, our knees and shoulders touching. The skirt is so far up my thighs, it's borderline indecent. I've also kept the top four buttons of my blouse unbuttoned; I'm sure if I lean forward, he'll get a good view of those tits that are apparently wasted in the restaurant business. The washed scent of his aftershave wafts between us, and instantly it reminds me of a time when my nose was tucked below his jaw, inhaling like I already knew the memory would fade.
"Liv," he starts. "Maybe you should ride with Munch back to the precinct. Fin and I will hang back and wait to see if we can get a sighting of Jenny n' Kevin."
"But you guys said you didn't see them walk in."
He shrugs. "Maybe we missed 'em."
"I can stay —"
"— You've had an, um, interesting night," he says. "Munch already knows and they all agree that you should take it easy. We'll regroup tomorrow."
There's no point arguing my case. Elliot has been trying to avoid me since March, which is quite a challenge considering I'm his assigned partner. But he manages to find a way to switch partners, trade shifts, or limit our interactions to strictly professional conversations. It's a far cry from the way things were before a snow storm and an unexpected overnight stay in a Pine Hill motel.
"Fine. Whatever," I mock him. "I'll go."

INT. THE 16TH PRECINCT, MANHATTAN, NY - NIGHT

After changing out of the waitress uniform and into my own clothes, I settle in front of my computer. Booting up the cream-coloured monstrosity takes a few minutes, so I turn my attention to the cork board at one end of the room. Tacked on the board, we have pictures and names of the Fiorello Five — one of New York's fastest-growing criminal organizations . At the very top is the Boss — Roberto Fiorello — also known to his constituents as Don. Right below him are four Caporegimes — Antonio "Tony" Messina, Gianni "Benny" Beneventi, Nicolas "Slicks" Amaro, and Christopher "Babyface" Fiorello. Under the hierarchy, soldiers and associates' mugshots and names are laid out, including one of newly engaged Francis "Frankie" Fiorello.
The Windows 97 sound alerts me that the computer is ready. I open up the files on our investigation of a missing sixteen-year-old girl named Jennifer Kauffman. So far, we don't have much leads. We do have a statement from her single mother, Kara, about how she and Jenny had a heated argument the night before she went missing. When Kara woke up the next morning to find Jenny was gone, she didn't think anything of it. Jenny sometimes got a head start and passed by a friend's apartment before heading to her high school on the Lower East Side. When the school called that Jenny had been absent and when she wasn't home for supper, Kara chose not to report it to the police right away. She waited until the next morning, hoping her daughter would return on her own.
In hindsight, Kara regrets it.
I open the files shared to us by the FBI and the DEA. The FBI has been trying to take down the Fiorello Five using the RICO Act for years. The DEA is a relatively new addition to the investigation, often contending with the FBI on how to approach the criminal organization. SVU is the newest on the case, and we probably wouldn't have been allowed to investigate if the feds got their way. Luckily, Captain Cragen convinced his bosses in 1-PP to allow SVU to look into Jenny's disappearance and why she was last seen in public with 23-year-old Kevin Esposito — one of Tony Messina's up-and-coming associates.

"Don't shit all over our investigation," warned the large egos working for the more well-funded agencies.
As much as I find their personalities to be collectively unappealing, I have to commend the feds for their years of research on the Fiorello Five.
I've looked at these files a few times and I have Kevin Esposito's face imprinted into my memory. Like the rest of the squad, I watched the door at that restaurant, waiting to see if Kevin walked in with Jenny on his arm just like in the security footage from a building not far from Penn Station. Jenny didn't appear to be distressed in the picture, but it still makes me sick to know he's manipulated her. She's sixteen. It's disgusting and illegal.
Instead of searching for more information on Kevin, I look through the image files in search of a face. It's only been twenty hours since Jenny has been officially declared missing, so I haven't had much time to study. Members of the Fiorello Five are sometimes featured on local newspapers and tabloids to honor their contributions to many of the city's charities. A clipping from the New York Post shows the complete Fiorello Five, arms slung over each others' shoulders and cigars wedged between their yellowed teeth. One from the Observer shows Don with his son Frankie at a fundraiser at the Waldorf Astoria - the cause: funding public school art programs for inner-city kids. The New York Daily News also covers this fundraiser, but instead features a different shot.
The caption reads, "Real estate tycoons Roberto Fiorello and Nicolas Amaro with each of their sons: Francis and Nicolas Jr. respectively."
The news story is over ten years old and the two boys in the image look like they've barely passed puberty, but there's no mistaking that I know I met Nicolas Jr. in the linen closet at Casa Delle Aragoste. I look at his father's face and see the hard planes, the high cheekbones, and those penetrating eyes. I don't know why I didn't make the connection before. Apart from a different nose and a narrower, more athletic build, the man in the closet looks just like his father.

JUNE 5, 1999 — SATURDAY

EXT. 127TH AND AMSTERDAM AVE., MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS, NY — MIDNIGHT

It doesn't take long to figure out where Nicolas Amaro Jr. lives even when he doesn't have a police record — not even a parking ticket. The FBI has done their due diligence in assuring that the younger Amaro is not involved in any way with his father's business. In fact, it's been over a year since he last saw his father and that was only to attend his grandmother's funeral. As I read the notes clearing him of any involvement, it affirms his claims from earlier that evening. I'm not sure what it is exactly — maybe it's the curiosity about his relationship with his father, or maybe it's got something to do with feeling guilty for doubting him — but I pick up my car keys and drive to the address on file, park across the street, and wait.
He lives in a fourth-floor walk-up with a Kodak printing center on the first floor. Apartment 4A faces the street. The lights are turned off and no one's home, and if there's anything I know about Italian Americans and dinner parties, I know it keeps going through the night. I sit and wait, watching the quiet street for any activity. At the corner of 126th, there's a teenager with a backwards baseball cap and he's leaning against the vandalized wall of a bodega.

The scene retrieves memories of the last time Elliot and I were called to the neighborhood. It was a case involving the rape of a Columbia grad student. She had received grants and scholarships that helped persuade her conservative Iranian family to send her to the United States to pursue further studies. She had been living in New York for eight months with no problem — she figured out the subway system, she easily made friends with a tight group of international grad students, and she scored a studio apartment within walking distance of the university. The investigation, as many of them do, led SVU down a path of multiple rapes in the area with the same perpetrator. The suspect in question was a man on the run last seen holing up at his uncle's cabin near the Murphy Hill State Forest.
It was the Ides of March — I remember because I mentioned it in the car on the way upstate. Elliot was driving and I was trying to evoke out loud the salient plot points of the Shakespearean tragedy. We laughed because I kept mixing it up with at least three other tragedies. On that drive, I learned Elliot once gave an A+ delivery of Brutus' oration in front of his tenth grade English class. I imagined tenth grade Elliot and wondered what it would've been like if I met him as tenth grade me. Would he be my best friend? Would he see me and choose me instead?
On March 16th, the drive back to the city was filled with the palpable sound of silence.

The stakeout clocks in a full hour before I start to feel the exhaustion hit me. I yawn, resting my eyes a full ten seconds before I open them wide to prove my wakefulness. I debate running to the bodega to get a cup of stale coffee or one of those disgusting energy drinks, but I decide against it for the next ten minutes — a dare to myself. At minute seven, a silver Buick pulls up in front of the Kodak store. I'm holding my breath when the passenger door opens and out steps Nicolas Amaro Jr. — the boy in the New York Daily News who is now a man in every sense of the word.
He leans into the passenger window, forearms resting on the door, finishing up the chat with the driver whose face I can't make out in the darkness. As he pulls away to stand straight, I notice that he puts something in his left pocket. It happens quickly, and then he's waving at the driver as the car speeds down Amsterdam Avenue.
When the car's out of sight, he steps up to the curb and reaches for his keys. I make my move. Stepping out of the car, I cross the street. I catch him by the shoulder as he turns the knob and pushes the door to the apartments upstairs.
"What the fuck!" He takes a defensive stance, pushing my hand from his shoulder and turning on his heel. He faces me, our eyes wide and locked. I think recognition hits him just as I follow my instincts and reach for my gun in my holster. My fist curls around the grip and I pull.
"Don't shoot!"

AN: Please let me know what you think by leaving a review. I'd love to get some feedback and reactions, whether you love it or hate it. I didn't want to say this was slightly AU at the beginning because I wanted Nick's reveal to be a surprise, but for the most part everything else is canon. I just wanted to utilize characters that already exist in the SVU universe in a different way. I hope you like it!