"Son of a bitch." Scott groans as his hand runs through his hair, watching the cab drive off.

He hadn't expected Mitchell to storm out like that. He had no idea what the hell his problem was, but the last thing he needed was an uncooperative witness. If he wanted any chance of finally nailing Shelton, that man was it.

He turns around and heads back to the police station, finding the detective he had seen Mitchell with earlier sitting at his desk drinking coffee.

"Are you the detective working the Hunt murder?" Scott plops himself down in the witness chair next to the desk without invitation.

"Yeah, Kevin Olusola." He reaches out his hand for Scott to shake.

"Scott Hoying." Kevin nods, his hand falling away to flip open a file, flashes of crime scene photos appearing before he lands on a statement page.

"How can I help?"

"Your witness," Scott throws a thumb up towards the door Mitchell had stormed out from just a few minutes ago. "What can you tell me about him?"

Kevin's head dips as he reads the file.
"Mitchell Coby-Michael Grassi, age 25. Works at the Barclays Business Center as an Content Marketing Specialist. Was on his way home when he walked in on the murder. Got fourteen stitches in his hands after being shot at twice by this man." He pulls out a sketch and slides it over to Scott.

Long pencil strokes create a man with a crooked nose, a long, circular jaw and short beard covering the lower half of his face. Without the fine lines of age, he looked exactly like the man Scott saw twenty-four years ago, even without the scar running down his left eye.

"And he's sure this is him?" Scott breaks his gaze away from the graphite eyes staring up at him.

"Seemed pretty sure." Kevin leans back in his seat. "When our guys got there, they figured he was 'bout 100 feet away before he fired at him." He taps his pen against his keyboard.

"Lucky for him, he's quick. The guy put two bullets straight through the headrest."

Scott nods, already knowing of Vine's marksmanship.

"Did you get his address before he left?" Scott steers the conversation back to the entire reason he came back into the station.

"Yeah," Kevin says while thinking, pushing some papers aside before picking up a blue sticky note.

"709 Jefferson Court, apartment 3E." Kevin hands Scott the address.

"Thanks," he folds it up and sticks it into his pocket next to his badge.

A silence falls over them and Scott stands, the conversation clearly over. Kevin stands with him.

"Good luck with him." Kevin shakes his hand.

Scott thanks him, not telling him it's Mitchell who needs the luck.

{*#*}

I sit under the hot spray of the shower, too exhausted to stand, but needing to scrub off the smell of the police station.

My clothes lay discarded on the tile floor, not even making it into the hamper only a few feet away.

Even under the rushing water, I can still hear the man–Sam Hunt was his name–pleading for his life.

My hands run through my soaked hair, cupping my ears and letting my head fall to my knees, my tears mixing with the steaming water.

I only get out when the water runs cold, any hope of getting even an ounce more of warm water vanquished.

I wrap my hair up in a towel before drying off my body and wrapping myself up in my pink "bunny" robe that I had gotten as a Christmas gift years ago. It was a super fluffy, super pink robe that looked absolutely ridiculous, but god damn, if it wasn't the comfiest robe I ever owned.

I walk into my living room, a cup of lavender chamomile tea in my hand when the doorbell rings.

My movements freeze and my head turns towards the door. I wasn't expecting anyone.

With quiet footsteps, I approach the door, leaning against the cool metal frame as I peer through the peephole.

The distorted image of the FBI agent from earlier stands in my doorway, his hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels as he waits for me to answer.

Keeping the chain on, I crack open my door, just enough for him to see half of my face.

His eyes quickly dart to the purple towel on my head before settling back on my face .

"You couldn't even give me one hour to myself?" I spit. All I wanted was to just decompress, and so far, that had been totally and completely impossible.

"Can't you just come back tomorrow?" I plead, praying he'll agree. His eyes dart away from me, so quickly I almost missed it, and when his eyes find mine again, I can already see his answer.

"This can't wait." Damn it.

I take a deep breath and shut the door, closing my eyes as I undo the chain, opening my eyes as I pull the door open.

I don't say anything, just step to the side, and hold my hand out for him to enter.

He nods, stepping through the threshold. As he passes by, his eyes fall to my body, his steps faltering for a moment as he smirks.

"Nice robe." He comments, resuming his pace and showing himself into my living room.

I huff, pushing the door closed and following him in, his back to me as he spins in a small circle, taking in the room with a nod of his head.

I put my tea down on the end table by my side, loud enough to snap his attention back to me.

"So why is this so important that it can't wait another day?" I cross my arms, leaning back on my left leg.

A smile flashes on his lips, and before I can call him out on it, he glances at his shoes before looking back at me, composed and professional.

"The man who shot at you–did anyone tell you who he is?" I pull my lip in between my teeth, trying to think back through the hoards of information that had been thrown at me the past twenty-four hours.

"I don't think so." I shake my head. Then I suddenly frown, my arms falling. "They said I had to wait for you." My jaw sets as I glare at him, though he doesn't seem phased by it at all.

He pulls his hand out of his pocket and motions for the couch.

"You may want to sit down." And though I don't want to do anything he says, the drop in his voice tells me that I should listen.

I sit on the last seat of my couch, him on the other end, his body turned towards me. He clasps his hands together and I notice a silver band on his ring finger, wondering why it's on the wrong hand.

"The man who tried to kill you, his name is Adam "La La" Vine. He works for Blake Shelton, head of the Shelton crime family." He says each word carefully. My stomach plummets and my whole body is suddenly aflame in a scorching white heat.

"Crime family?" I don't know why I bother asking. I know that's just another way to say mob. I didn't think those still existed.

"It's another word for–"

"Mafia." I finish for him, my whisper breaking as my throat catches, my eyes stuck staring at the little bandages littering my hands as a deafening silence rings in my ears. I can feel the tips of my fingers come alive as needles shoot through my palms.

"May seem scary," His voice carries over to you, bringing me back down to earth.

I look over to him, his hands moving with his words, and I wonder how long he had been talking.

"And it would be in everyone's best interest if you entered protective custody as we move forward." My jaw slacks at his words and I gape at him.

"Protective custody?" I lean back.
"Yes, it's where the FBI provides you with–"

I hold my hand up, stopping him.
"I know what protective custody is." I interrupt him again, and I notice a tick in his jaw before he swallows hard, like he's desperately trying to bite his tongue.

I push myself off the couch, turning myself to face him.

"Who says I even want to be part of all this? I never said I would testify." My mind races. I didn't want any part of this–not if the mob was involved. I had seen enough Pacino movies to know what happens to snitches.

For the first time since I met him, FBI Agent Scott Hoying looked unsure, and it I had known him better, the fall of his hands, the way his eyes suddenly scanned back and forth, I would have said he was nervous.

"You have to testify." He stands, his frame towering mine, even with a coffee table between us.

"I don't have to do anything. I know my rights." I cross my arms, bullshitting. All I knew was what I had seen in tv shows and movies.

He rolls his eyes, his head lolling back.
"Oh you've got to be kidding me." His arms go out.

"I'm not kidding anyone." I stand firmly. "I'm not here to be anyone's pawn. I'm not uprooting my life for the FBI," My voice begins to rise as scenes of a future locked in some dark, "witness center" flash through my mind. "And I'm certainly not putting my life at risk so you can put some mob guy away!" My chest heaves, not having meant to yell, but my emotions getting the best of me.

He doesn't say anything, just stares at me, his lips pursed and green eyes unnervingly cool. The set in his jaw the only giveaway that his composed façade was just that.

He takes in a breath.

"You have the chance to help us put away a man who has been destroying lives for decades." He steps towards me. "You have a chance to stop him from killing anyone else. You have the chance to do something great." His steps fall as he lands in front of me, not close enough to touch, but close enough to see the silver ring around his pupils.

"And you won't." He words are like a knife through my heart, guilt oozing instead of blood.

His tongue rolls over his teeth as he looks away from me, nodding.

He reaches into his pocket, and I flinch as he pulls out a business card–unsure why I thought it was going to be his gun.

If he saw me flinch, he doesn't say anything. He just holds the card up to my face before dropping it on the end table next to my tea.

"I'll show myself out." He says, his voice cold.

I open my mouth, wanting to say anything, but words fail me.

He pushes past me, his shoulder brushing mine as I fail to move out of his way in time.

His footsteps echo down the hallway, my body recoiling as my door slams shut.

With a blank face, I fall onto my couch, picking up my tea and taking a sip, not caring that it's cold.