A Life in DC
Chapter 6 - Part 1
Vieri's two days off felt longer than they should have. The house stayed quiet after Selina slipped out the window that last night, but the smell of her—leather, cherry lip gloss, and something that was just her—still hung around the couch and the sheets. He didn't bother opening windows. He just sat there with a beer, staring at the TV without really seeing it, replaying Montoya's offer in his head like a looped tape.
By the second night he made the call.
"Detective Montoya? It's Oronzo. I'm in."
Her voice on the other end didn't waste time. "Good. Briefing room, third floor, zero-nine-hundred tomorrow. Bring coffee if you want it to stay hot. We're starting with what we've got on the Queens."
That was it. No pep talk, no thanks. Just business. Vieri liked that.
The next morning the precinct smelled like burnt coffee and floor wax, same as always. He took the stairs instead of the elevator, nodding at the usual faces. A couple of uniforms gave him the side-eye—word had already spread that the quiet guy from patrol was moving upstairs. He ignored it. He'd ignored worse.
The briefing room smelled like it always did first thing in the morning: stale coffee left too long in the pot, fresh Sharpie ink from the whiteboard markers, old paper from the endless case files, and the faint metallic bite of gun oil that seemed to follow every detective who'd been to the range recently. Underneath it all was the sharp citrus of Renata Montoya's shampoo—clean, bright, cutting through the heavier precinct odors like a knife.
She was already at the corkboard when Vieri walked in, back to the door, reaching up to pin another grainy still of Harley Quinn laughing outside a burned-out bodega. The stretch pulled her white button-down tight across her shoulders and upper back—broad enough to carry real weight, narrow enough at the waist to make the tuck look effortless. Dark slacks hugged solid hips and long thighs; when she shifted her weight to one leg to reach higher, the fabric stretched just enough to trace the curve of her glutes and the faint outline of black practical underwear beneath. Five-nine, maybe five-ten in the boots. Strong legs, runner's calves, the kind that came from chasing suspects down alleys and up fire escapes for years.
Her dark hair was scraped into a high, tight ponytail that left the nape of her neck exposed—smooth olive skin, a tiny scar just below the hairline that Vieri had noticed last time but never asked about. Sleeves rolled to mid-forearm showed corded muscle and a few faint freckles from summer stakeouts. The top two buttons of her shirt were open from the way she moved, not on purpose—practical black bra edges visible when she turned, full high breasts shifting slightly under the cotton as she reached. A thin gold chain disappeared into the shadow between them; Vieri caught the glint when she leaned forward. No perfume, just clean skin, citrus shampoo, gun oil, and the warm, subtle musk of someone who'd already done an hour of PT before shift.
She didn't turn right away.
"Coffee's on the table," she said, voice low and steady. "Black, two sugars, right?"
Vieri set the tray down with a soft clack.
"You remembered."
Montoya finally turned, arms crossing under her chest. The motion lifted her breasts slightly, pulling the shirt snug—full C-cups that filled the cups cleanly, no push-up nonsense, just natural shape and support.
"File says you take it like a grown-up who doesn't need a latte. Bien hecho." (Well done.)
He gave a small half-smile.
"¿Todavía hablas mejor que yo?" (You still speak it better than me?)
She snorted softly, the sound warm.
"Desde el Bronx, pendejo. Tú sigues con ese acento pugliese que no se te quita." (From the Bronx, asshole. You still have that Pugliese accent you can't shake.)
Vieri shrugged one shoulder.
"Mis viejos no me dejaron olvidarlo." (My old folks wouldn't let me forget it.)
Montoya's eyes flicked over him—quick inventory: shoulders filling out the hoodie, steady stance, no fidgeting. He doesn't posture, she thought again, same as she had after reviewing the Gilded Cage footage for the third time last night. Doesn't try to own the room. Just stands there like he already belongs. Calm under pressure, precise shots, no wasted words. Rare. Attractive in a way that had nothing to do with looks and everything to do with competence. She pushed the observation aside. Focus.
"Sawyer's transfer cleared," she said, turning back to the board but keeping him in peripheral. "She'll be here next week. Until then it's you, me, Allen, Owen, and Glass. Five bodies. We stay lean."
Vieri dropped into a chair and pulled the top folder toward him. The paper smelled faintly of toner and old filing cabinets.
"¿Cuál es el plan hoy?" (What's the plan today?)
"Patterns. Safe houses. Money trails." She paced now—easy rolling stride, hips shifting naturally with each step, boots clicking soft on linoleum. "Harley's bouncing between East End and the old amusement park docks—three confirmed sightings in ten days. Ivy's plants popping up in abandoned greenhouses; we've got three active sites. Selina…" Montoya's mouth twitched, the name sour on her tongue. "Still the ghost. Jewelry fences, high-end pawns, then gone. But the three of them moving together? That's new. And dangerous."
They spent the next two hours digging in. Montoya paced while she talked, gesturing with her whole body—leaned over the table to tap a red pin on the map, collar gaping just enough for Vieri to catch black bra strap, faint tan line from rooftop surveillance last summer, the subtle rise and fall of her breathing under the cotton. She drifted closer without seeming to notice: hip brushing the arm of his chair when she reached past for a marker, forearm grazing his shoulder when she pointed at a photo, ponytail swinging near enough that the citrus shampoo scent mixed with warm skin and gun oil hit him again.
Vieri kept his eyes on the map, the stills, the reports. But he noticed. She moves like the space is hers, he thought. No performance—just comfortable. Strong shoulders, solid hips, legs that look like they could run down anyone in the city. The way she leaned close wasn't deliberate; it was just how she worked—animated, focused, body following her words. The open buttons, the way the shirt pulled across her chest when she crossed her arms, the faint sheen of morning sweat at her temples from whatever workout she'd done before dawn—it all registered without him staring. He was still human. He just didn't let it show.
By ten-thirty she slapped the last folder shut with a decisive smack.
"You still want street-side? Solo recon. East End. Harley's been spotted twice this week near the old Falcone warehouse. Low profile. Eyes only. No hero shit."
"Copy that."
Montoya studied him—dark eyes steady, searching. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't brag. Just nods like the job's already half done. She liked that more than she wanted to admit.
"You handled the Gilded Cage better than half the SWAT guys I've seen," she said. "Calm. Precise. No cowboy bullshit. I need that again. Don't get cute."
"Never do."
A beat of quiet. Then she gave a short, satisfied nod.
"Bien." (Good.) "Dismissed. Bring me anything solid and I'll buy the next round of shitty precinct coffee."
Vieri stood, gathered the empty cups. As he passed her toward the door, Montoya's hand landed on his shoulder—brief, firm, warm through the hoodie fabric. Her fingers squeezed once, almost unconsciously, before letting go.
"Bienvenido al equipo, Vieri." (Welcome to the team, Vieri.)
He felt the warmth linger. Not just the touch—the trust behind it. For the first time in years it didn't feel like a setup waiting to burn him. It felt solid.
He met her eyes for a second.
"Gracias, Renata." (Thanks, Renata.)
She let her hand drop, but the small squeeze had been real.
"When it's just us—Renata. Montoya when the brass is around."
"Vieri," he answered. "Not Oliviero unless my nonna's yelling from the grave."
A real smile—small, quick, gone in a flash, but it reached her eyes.
"Vieri it is."
He walked out with the ghost of her hand on his shoulder, citrus shampoo and gun oil still in the air behind him.
Montoya watched the door close, then exhaled slowly.
Shit, she thought. He's going to be trouble. The good kind.
She turned back to the board, but her mind stayed half on the quiet cop who didn't posture, didn't leer, didn't fill silence with noise—and somehow still managed to take up space in her head without trying.
She shook her head once, hard, and reached for the next photo.
Work first.
Always work first.
The next two days Vieri ran recon the way old-school cops still did it—no drones, no fancy GPS pings, no chatter on the radio that could be intercepted. Plainclothes: faded black hoodie, dark jeans, scuffed boots that blended into any East End sidewalk. The Civic was perfect for it—beat-to-shit silver sedan, dents in all the right places, windows tinted just dark enough to hide his face without screaming "undercover." He kept the radio off. Just the low hum of the engine, the slap of tires on wet asphalt, and the occasional burst of static from passing police scanners he didn't bother tuning.
He started each shift at dusk, cruising slow loops through the East End grid: Kane Street to the riverfront, up through the old garment district, back down along the derelict rail yard. Eyes everywhere—alleys choked with overflowing dumpsters, rooftops lined with rusting fire escapes, the flickering neon of pawn shops and check-cashing joints that doubled as high-end fences. Harley's clown makeup and twin pigtails were a beacon if she wanted attention. Tonight she didn't.
First night he caught her twice. Once at 20:47—a red-and-black blur vaulting from one rooftop to another near the old textile mill, pigtails whipping like flags in the wind. Too fast for photos, but he marked the time, the block, the wind direction (southwest, 12 mph, carrying her giggle faintly toward him before it vanished). Second sighting at 22:19: a shadow dropping into an alley off Sullivan, landing light on trash bags, then gone. He circled back twice. Nothing. Just the smell of wet cardboard, motor oil, and distant cooking grease from a late-night noodle stand.
He logged everything in a small black notebook he kept in the glovebox:
20:47 – Subject visual, rooftop transit, 400 block Kane. Direction: northbound. No visible backup.22:19 – Alley drop, Sullivan & 12th. No follow-up movement observed. Weather: overcast, 54°F, light drizzle starting 21:30.
Clean. Precise. Montoya would like that. She'd called him "methodical" once during the briefing, and the word had stuck in his head like a good review.
Second night was quieter. One possible sighting at 21:03—high-pitched laugh echoing off brick near the abandoned bottling plant—but when he doubled back it was just a couple of teenagers messing with a broken fire hydrant. He stayed out until 01:00 anyway, running the same loops, same slow rolls past the same corners. No impatience. Patience was the job.
Third night the rain came back for real. Steady, cold, the kind that soaked through jackets and made streetlights halo. He finished the last pass at 23:15, rolling the Civic into the usual pull-off behind the warehouse district: a narrow service alley between two derelict loading docks, hidden from the main drag by stacked shipping containers. Engine off. Heater ticking as it cooled. Rain drumming on the roof like impatient fingers.
He reached for the ignition key to head home.
A gloved hand slid around his throat from the back seat—fast, professional, leather cool against his skin. Before he could react, the other arm hooked under his chin, locking him in place. The giggle that followed was unmistakable: high, delighted, pure Harley.
"Night-night, big boy."
Chloroform rag pressed over his mouth and nose. Sweet, chemical, dizzying. He tried to buck, to slam an elbow back, but the grip was iron and the fumes were faster. Vision tunneled. The last thing he registered was her breath against his ear—warm, bubblegum-sweet—and then black.
He came to slowly, head throbbing like someone had used it for batting practice. The Civic was still running, heater on low, fan whispering. Parked deeper in some alley he didn't recognize—tighter walls, graffiti tags he hadn't seen before, rain sheeting down the windshield in thick rivulets. Streetlight filtered through in weak yellow smears.
And there was a mouth on his cock.
Warm. Wet. Enthusiastic.
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