Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't, nor will I ever own HSM.
Wherever You Are: Chapter One
Troy had been at work barely five minutes when his boss' secretary, Cynthia, breezed through the door without knocking and announced her presence with a loud clearing of her throat.
Troy looked up at her, trying to illustrate his annoyance, but as usual, Cynthia was completely oblivious, and seated herself, crossing her legs and flicking her hair behind her shoulders. His eyes narrowed…she'd been flirting with him for three years now, and Troy wondered when she'd get the message that he really wasn't interested.
He'd rather bone his boss then the oblivious and vacuous Cynthia Wake.
"How can I help you Cynthia?" he asked, deciding to get this over and done with before he truly did lose his sanity and throw her out the window. He idly wondered whether her silicone would bounce.
"Charlie wants to see you. Now," she added in an ominous tone, her eyes growing wide. "Something big is going down, Troy. He just got out of a meeting with Ethan five minutes ago."
Troy's eyebrows rose. Whatever her faults, Cynthia was an excellent source of information. "Ethan? Really?" Ethan was the Assistant Director and only visited the office when big decisions were being made.
"Yes," she confirmed. "Both looked like they were ready for action. Of course, being old and decrepit, they're probably going to send you in to be shot up, which is poetic justice really."
"How is it poetic justice?"
Cynthia had the grace to look a little embarrassed and let her eyes drop to the floor. "I don't know. I just heard the expression once in a film and I've really wanted to use it ever since."
He hid his grin. "Well, Cynthia, poetic justice is actually the fact that your old and decrepit boss is standing behind you in my doorway and just heard everything you said."
To her credit, Cynthia didn't turn around for a few seconds, nor did she blush. She walked sedately out of Troy's office and told her boss she'd, "Get to work on those letters, sir."
Charlie watched her departing with a wry and slightly amused smile, before closing Troy's door behind him and sitting down. His expression became serious and Troy realized something big was about to happen. "So, you have a degree in poetry as well?"
"Hardly, sir. I just have a few brain cells."
"Now, now," his boss mock-admonished, "Cynthia has her good qualities. She makes very good coffee and she's highly efficient." He paused. "So efficient she seems to get all her work done double-time and then gossips to her heart's content. But," he said decisively, "That's not why I'm here."
"I gathered that much," Troy said sarcastically, leaning back in his chair, glad now that he didn't have to finish that report that had been writing for three weeks. "What are you here to talk about?"
"We have a chance to infiltrate Mazio."
Troy expelled his breath. "How did that come about?"
"One of his hitmen wasn't quite good enough, and was shot when Mazio's rival gang, the Del Torio family tried to help themselves to some imports of Mazio's when they arrived at the docks. Pure heroin. Mazio was unimpressed, and he's put word out for a new hitman. He wants someone young, who's single at the moment and hasn't got the sticky attachments of a family."
Troy tilted his head in consideration, already knowing where this conversation was going. "Who's going in?"
"Originally, Jack was. He's just finished up on that Ostjac case."
"Originally?"
"He hasn't had enough experience with undercover work in gangs. He's worked women a lot more. We don't think he'd do a very convincing job and we can't let anything screw this up. We aren't going to take any chances. So, Ethan and I agree that there's only one man around here who has enough experience with gangs to pull this off successfully."
"And that man is?" Troy asked in a cool voice, tapping his pencil on the desk, knowing exactly who that man was.
"You."
When he arrived home, Isabel was cooking and Troy bit back his expression of growing alarm. How was he supposed to tell Isabel? Sorry, babe, but I've got to go undercover and endanger my life. Yeah, Isabel would just love that one.
Besides which, Troy had wanted to break up with the woman for weeks now, but he just hadn't worked up the courage. All his relationships ended up like this, and much as he knew there was no future for Isabel and him, he didn't want Isabel to be another statistic. Another failed relationship, another step further away from ever finding anyone.
He'd met Isabel at a book shop. She'd been holding the last copy of a book he desperately wanted and he'd approached her with his most charming grin. She hadn't fallen for it, and had archly suggested that they go halves and meet for a dinner in a week so she could give it to him.
Troy had agreed, against his better judgment that he didn't really want to be in a relationship, especially not with a woman who was so forthright and obviously had a need to be in control. After six months, Troy was ready to get out. Yet a selfish part of him wanted her to break it off, wanted her to walk away, so he could believe, albeit briefly, that he hadn't done anything wrong and that the relationship had not been his failure.
"Hey Isabel," he said tiredly, pulling his jacket off and draping it across a chair. He knew it annoyed her when he didn't hang his jackets and pants up, so he did it deliberately. "How are you?"
"Fine," she replied, giving him a kiss. "Dinner's ready."
"You didn't have to do that," he said, whilst undoing his tie and tossing somewhere in the general direction of his room. "I have to go away," he then began, figuring the sooner he got this over and done with the better.
"Where?" She stood as she spoke.
"I can't tell you."
Isabel sighed theatrically. "It's another one of those things. Christ! Why do you have to go undercover?"
Troy raised his eyebrows. "It's my job Isabel. It's what I do. I'm an FBI agent. I work in the undercover unit. My specialty is how the mob operates. How to slot into a family business…is any of this ringing bells? I seem to recall telling you on about the third date."
Isabel's expression grew hard and she crossed her arms. "Don't talk to me like that. You know what I mean."
"Do I?" he asked. "If you don't respect my job, then I have to wonder Isabel, whether you respect me."
She narrowed her blue eyes. "I don't have to listen to this, but I'm sick of knowing that your job comes first; knowing that you place your work before our relationship. If you go, if you leave, I'm telling you right now, we're not going to have a future. I will end it."
And now that the question had arrived, now that he had the option out, Troy did, like he always did. He recoiled and tried to apologize. "I'm sorry." He sighed. "I'm sorry Gabriella."
Well that did it. A simple slip of the tongue and Isabel was off. "Gabriella? Who the hell is Gabriella? Huh? Tell me Troy, who is Gabriella? Better yet, don't answer, I don't want to know. She's probably some cheap floozy you met on one of your assignments."
"Isabel…" he interrupted.
"Don't you Isabel me."
"Look…Gabriella is just an old friend. I haven't seen her for years and years, but I'm tired, and sometimes you look a bit like her, when I'm not concentrating. It was a slip of the tongue. I didn't mean it."
Isabel stormed into the kitchen and started banging plates around. "Nice save there. But not quite good enough. I don't believe you for one second."
"It's true," he persisted quietly. "Isabel…you have to believe me."
She slammed the pasta sauce into the single bowl. "Here's your dinner, and frankly, I don't believe anything you say anymore. I'm leaving. Don't call me."
Isabel left within seconds. Troy stood where he was for a few minutes, then he collected his dinner, sat down on his couch and ate in complete silence.
Parking his car and getting out, he looked up at the building and checked the address. He was in the right place. It was an old building, with ivy growing across the front, making it look idyllic. Three floors high, it was a lovely redbrick, with green awnings and windowsills, and balconies on the second and third floors. The curtains looked expensive, the front garden was well kept and the footpath was swept. The surrounding area was mostly residential, though there were a few businesses that he'd seen as he drove here, taking the opportunity to stake out where he was going to be operating for an unknown amount of time. It was an older area, with classy, heritage buildings built at the turn of the century. He could see the advantages of having the set-up here. It was quiet, unassuming and nobody would suspect anything. He closed his car door with a confident slam, checked his ID and other things and then walked up the steps and knocked on the door, rapping the heavy, imposing brass knocker against the sturdy oak door.
"Who is it?" a guarded voice asked from behind the door.
"It's Tomas. I'm here for the appointment." Those were the words he'd been instructed to say when Mazio had sent him a letter, saying he'd been hired. He hadn't been interviewed, he hadn't given in a resume…his persona had been created, with background information and Mazio had checked it out.
"Come in," the voice said in a begrudging voice. The door creaked open. "I'm Tony."
"Soprano?" Troy asked. His joke didn't crack a smile.
"This way." They went down a narrow hall, passing a flight of stairs, heading towards the back of the building. They passed a formal dinning room and sitting room. There was a conference room that looked out into the side garden path that rang along the house. Turning right at the end of the hall,
Troy took a quick glance left and saw a wide, open kitchen, leading out into a patio garden. They passed closed doors that Troy assumed to be offices, amongst other less savory things. He figured the bedrooms were all upstairs. Finally, at the end of that hall, Tony not-Soprano knocked on the door, three times.
"Come in," called a low voice. Tony pushed the door open almost reverently, and said in a hushed voice, "He's arrived boss."
"Thanks Tony. Get back to the door. By the way, I heard that Michael won his spelling bee, and won the math competition. Seems the boy's got brains."
"Yes sir. I guess so. I'll tell him you said so." Tony backed away, sent Troy a glare and closed the door.
"That one's anal retentive," Troy said, immediately trying to create a persona of individuality. "I'm Tomas."
"I know," Christof Mazio said, swiveling in his chair. He was a short man, with thick dark hair that fell messily about his face today. His voice held a slight Italian accent, but his English was precise. He looked like he'd been up all night, but his power and his presence was unmistakable. Christof controlled the room. He was a man to be reckoned with. He was also part of the Mafia. "Please, sit down Tomas."
Troy did so. "Nice place you've got here."
"Should be. I paid enough for it. And it could be cleaner." Troy wondered what kind of man could kill in cold-blood and then complain about the state of the house he lived in. "Well, Tomas, you have the job."
"Thank you. Will I need to move here?"
"Yes, of course. Do you have your things?"
"They're in the car. I brought everything with me. I thought I'd have to move," Troy confided.
"I'm not paying you to think," Christof snapped. "But it was good thinking. You'll have a bedroom on the third floor. At least the bedrooms in this place are kept clean."
"I suppose your wife takes care of that." It was common knowledge that Christof's wife, Daniella hated her husband with a vengeance and the two barely exchanged any kind of conversation. They'd had one son, who'd died nearly four years ago in a car accident, but whilst he was alive it seemed their relationship had been cordial. After his death, it had completely deteriorated.
"Yes. I suppose she does," Christof eventually replied. Score one for Troy. "For now, go back down the hall to the kitchen. My first man, Petro should be in there eating. He'll tell you everything you need to know."
Troy stood. "Do I get outfitted?" he asked, the question really meaning, would he be given his weaponry.
"Not until you prove yourself," Christof told him, waving his hand imperiously. "Go."
"Yes sir." He opened the door and was confronted by the exact, complete, totally last thing he expected the see.
AN: I have the entire story written already, so if you want more...review :)