Free Death, Taxes, and a Chocolate Cannoli (A Tara Holloway Novel) by Diane Kelly

“Operation Italian Takeout?”
    Hana pulled her hand from behind her head and pointed a finger at Will. “That’s it.”
    I looked over my team. As the lead on Operation Italian Takeout, I was responsible for my fellow agents whom I’d brought into the case. Their lives would be in my hands. Problem was, my hands were shaking. I knew each of them was going into this case willingly, and that they were highly skilled, but I’d also seen images of the type of horrifying, heinous acts Tino Fabrizio was capable of. If any of my coworkers ended up impaled on a fence post, with a face full of nails, or crushed to death, I’d never forgive myself.
    “Any questions?” I asked.
    Hana raised a hand. “Can I take the leftover pizza home?”
    I looked to Nick. He was the one who’d sprung for lunch, after all.
    “Knock yourself out,” Nick said.
    We wrapped up our meeting, Hana grabbed the pizza box, and we all returned to our offices.
    While Nick’s new identity had been expedited so that he could secure the lease at the building near Cyber-Shield, I’d had to wait on mine. Late that afternoon, my new identity arrived via courier. The large cardboard box came complete with a driver’s license, resume, and the keys to both a car and an apartment. I was now Tori Holland, a twenty-four-year-old part-time student at Dallas Baptist University, majoring in business administration. They’d done a good job of making my alias as close to the real me as possible. The name sounded similar, and the fact that I had actually studied accounting in college would make me able to speak the language should anyone question me. The packet included three used college textbooks and a schedule of my classes at DBU. I’d have to attend, at least until I was sure none of Fabrizio’s thugs was following me. According to the schedule, I was signed up for Managerial Cost Accounting, Global Marketing, and Introduction to Linguistics.
    What the heck is linguistics?
    I supposed I’d find out.
    According to my transcript, I was merely an average student, my cumulative GPA a 2.8. Gee, thanks, FBI. At least they’d given me a new laptop, one that was clean and devoid of any data that would link me to the IRS. The package also included a new cell phone with a bright pink cover. I’d disabled the Wi-Fi and Bluetooth on my government-issued phone to prevent Fabrizio and his men from being able to access it, but I’d leave those functions enabled on my new phone so as not to raise their suspicions. This meant I’d have to be careful with my communications, while at the same time using my phone as a real college student would.
    The information included in the box listed the phone numbers for the new cell phones of all members of Operation Italian Takeout, both IRS and FBI. I entered them in my contacts list, giving them nicknames with flip-flopped first and last initials that would identify them to nobody other than myself. Burt Hohenwald became Hayden Beale. Nick Pratt became Pat Nix. Hana Kim became Kimberly Hannigan. Eddie Bardin was now Bart Edwards. William Dorsey became Donald Waltham. And Josh Schmidt morphed into Sam Jacobs.
    I wrote DO NOT DISTURB on a Post-it note and slapped it on the outside of my office door, closing it behind me. Using my new pink cell phone, I dialed the number for Benedetta’s Bistro.
    A woman answered on the third ring. “Benedetta’s Bistro,” she said. “How can I help you?”
    “I saw your ad for help in your window and wanted to see if I could arrange an interview.”
    “Just a second,” the woman said. There was a shuffling sound as she apparently covered the receiver. “Hey, Ma!” I heard her yell. “There’s someone on the phone about the job.” There was muffled conversation in the background, and the woman came back on the line. “She wants to know if you have any food service experience.”
    Per my new resume, I’d been a nanny for a family who had three children. Surely that had involved some