Chapter 7:

My Dad Died and Got Me In Trouble

You Only Kiss Twice

“Alright, we’re all done,” said the doctor.

John got up off the metal table with a new stitch in his side. His shirt and vest were removed, exposing his abs and toned young body to the world.

“The blade was super thin,” said the doctor, going to a small sink to wash his hands. “That’s good. Won’t leave much of a mark.”

“Thanks,” said John, inspecting his bandage to make sure it would stay. “Lea, you got a shirt for me?”

Lea was leaning against a wall, staring at him. More specifically, her eyes scoured his chest and abs. Not too bulky, but sculpted with the “go” muscles of a martial artist. Not “show” muscles for the mirror.

“Lea?” John said again.

“Huh?” she blinked, snapping out of it. “Um—right. There’s a T-shirt in the car. Let’s go.” She left quickly, face flushed.

***

On the drive home, John sat in the front with her. He dozed off, dreaming of the day he’d read his dad’s will, exactly one week prior. That was the day his father died.

The day he went to the reading. The day all this trouble started.

***

John got ready the same way he always did.

He woke up and did 100 push ups, 100 sit ups and 100 squats.

Then, two slices of toast. Eggs. Tea.

The same breakfast he’d had every morning for the past year.

He even drove to Langley, to CIA headquarters, just like any other day.

Except today, he sat in his car for an extra twenty minutes.

He wasn’t going to be late. He was never late. He always arrived thirty minutes early.

But today? For the first time, he’d only be ten minutes early.

Twenty minutes. They blurred by in a haze, his mind caught in a loop.

He leaned his seat back, eyes locked on the roof of his car, thinking. Contemplating. Bracing.

Exactly one week ago, he had spoken to his mafia father for the first time in six years. That call ended with a revelation, his father was dying.

And now, this morning, a text had come from an unknown number.

He hadn’t needed to verify it.

He knew it was real.

His father was dead. Dead as a fallen brick.

His thoughts drifted.

His mother: how devastated must she be? His siblings: how were they taking it?

And then, the inevitable question: Would he fulfill his father’s dying wish? Would he go to the will reading? The funeral?

But mostly, he wondered what would happen when he stepped through those CIA doors.

A mafia boss’s son, now working for the U.S. government.

His father was dead. And by the end of the day, John would be boarding a plane to Boston to sit at a table full of criminals and hear his father’s final words.

To the CIA, that meant one thing:

Wear a wire. That was something John would never do.

He had joined the Economics Division of the CIA to fight corruption where it mattered most, by following the money.

He knew firsthand: if someone had dirty money, it would always betray them.

That was how you caught them. That was how you brought them down.

Not with guns. Not with gossip. With numbers.

It was a desk job. Safe. Behind doors. No fieldwork. No moral tightropes.

And most importantly, it never required him to rat out his own blood.

Despite everything, that idea never sat right with him.

Instead, he had handed over the books on a rival mob family. It was a trade. One that bought him this life.

But now? Now, all eyes would be on him.

The kind of “you’re not walking away from this” attention. The kind that coils in your gut.

John exhaled slowly, then pushed open the car door.

He stepped out, stretching his legs, a nervous tick he’d had since childhood. Whenever his nerves got tight, loosening the muscles helped.

Today, it wasn’t working. John stepped into CIA headquarters, and the shift was immediate.

He could feel it in the lobby. All eyes were, in fact, on him.

Agents, analysts, security personnel, they all knew. No one said a word, but their stares were heavy. Even civilians in the building felt the tension and started staring too.

An elderly white woman near the entrance clutched her purse.

Usually, John would blame some form of ignorant racism.

This time, he understood. He would’ve clutched his purse too. He didn’t look back.

Just kept walking, he thought , toward my desk, toward the end of the day.

He crossed over the massive CIA seal on the floor.

At the checkpoint, Thomas, the usual guard, was reading a newspaper.

There it was, front page: "Mob Boss Michael Lear Nero, Dead."

Thomas was an ex-Marine. Late 40s. Tattooed. Not much for words.

He was showing the paper to the other guards when John stepped up.

At the sight of him, they scattered.

Everyone but Thomas. He calmly put down the paper and nodded.

“Morning, John.”

“Morning, Thomas.”

John placed his briefcase on the belt and stepped through the detector.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Thomas smirked. “What’ve you got this time?”

John forced a laugh. “Man, I hope it’s something interesting enough to get me put in a hole for a few days. Feels like I shouldn’t have come in today.”

Thomas waved him over, running the handheld. “Alright, just a quick pat-down.”

“Yeah, sure,” John said.

Routine. It was all routine.

As John reached for his briefcase, Thomas cleared his throat.

“Oh, by the way,” Thomas said.

John turned. “Yeah?”

Thomas exhaled. “I’m sorry.”

John’s hand tightened around the handle.

“I mean, it’s everywhere,” Thomas added. “TV, papers… people are talking.”

John nodded.

Thomas was one of the good ones. Honest. Loyal. The kind of guy who didn’t belong in this building. But maybe that’s why John liked him.

“I know,” John said. “Thanks.”

He managed a smirk. “Just make sure no one gets in who shouldn’t.”

Thomas grinned. “You know me—always willing to serve.”

John nodded and turned toward the elevator.

The doors slid open.

And there she was.

Lea Donovan.

Business casual black and white. Her clothes doing a terrible job of hiding her hourglass curves. Her hair is styled to be CIA compliant and yet she rocks the hairstyle so well, you would think she’s trying to show off. The type of woman who could make a trash bag dress look sexy. No jewelry, light makeup.

She leaned against the elevator, reading her phone. No briefcase.

He noticed a coffee stain on her collar. Her hair already frizzing. She’d been here a while.

“Hello, John,” she said, not looking up. “Went with the standard cologne today, I see.”

He stepped in. The doors closed.

The elevator hummed upward as it was silent inside.

Finally, Lea spoke again. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” John said.

Lea put away her phone. “Is it?”

John sighed and rubbed his temple.

“I mean,” she said, careful, “I know you didn’t like him. You obviously had some… let’s say, issues.”

“Yes, let’s say issues,” John said.

“But still… he was your father. You don’t feel anything?”

“I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Well,” Lea said, crossing her arms, “you might not want to talk to me, but they’re going to want to.”

“I know.”

“And?”

“I’m not wearing a wire.”

Lea frowned. “A wire?”

“Yes, a wire,” John said flatly. “I know what they’ll ask. They want me mic’d up at the will reading, maybe even the funeral. But I’m not doing it. I’m not a field agent. I sit at a desk. I do my job.”

Lea smiled. “I think that’s what I like about you, John.”

He raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“You always play it safe,” she said.

She stepped forward, locking eyes with him.

“And yet… that never seems to happen, does it?”

John cracked a real smile, the first all day.

“What are you, my therapist?” he asked.

They had trained together at The Farm.

Back then, she was one of the only ones who hadn’t judged him for his name.

They got close. Maybe too close.

Lea had drawn the line. Her career came first. No scandal with a coworker. Not this early.

However, it was obvious to anyone with eyes that there was more than friendship to be given from both sides.