Chapter 1 - The Secretary Who Interrupted a Murder to Talk About Office Supplies
Nine years was a long time to forget how to make a sound.
Not a scream.
Not an order.
Not the clipped, emotionless words required to control men who lived outside the law.
A real human laugh.
Dante Marino buried his humor the same day he buried his wife in the frozen dirt of a Chicago cemetery.
Since then, his empire had operated in suffocating silence.
Men learned quickly that Dante's silence was often more frightening than another man's rage.
You did not joke in front of him.
You did not laugh.
You did not tell stories about drunken nights or embarrassing weddings.
You certainly did not make comments about his personal life.
You reported numbers.
You took orders.
You got out.
Since the death of Clara Marino, Dante had become a man who seemed almost allergic to anything that resembled joy.
His Chicago organization had grown larger.
Stronger.
Cleaner.
More legitimate on paper.
There were shipping companies, construction firms, private security contracts, restaurants, clubs and property holdings.
Behind the legal walls, however, the old business remained.
Protection.
Smuggling.
Gambling.
Information.
Things that never appeared on tax documents.
Dante ran everything with the precision of a Fortune 500 CEO.
He was thirty-eight years old and already looked exhausted by life.
His men were terrified of him.
His enemies were terrified of him.
His own staff were terrified of disappointing him.
And his personal secretaries?
They rarely lasted a month.
The most experienced lasted six weeks.
The last one had quit after Dante stared at her for fourteen seconds when she asked whether he wanted birthday cake in the conference room.
She had cried in the elevator.
Dante had never understood why.
Then came Emily Davies.
Emily was thirty-one.
Permanently exhausted.
Chronically under-caffeinated.
And thoroughly unimpressed by organized crime.
She had a younger brother, Nathan, living in a private residential care facility in Evanston.
The facility was good.
Very good.
It was also brutally expensive.
Eight thousand dollars a month.
Emily had spent years juggling jobs, loans, overtime and credit cards.
Then the Marino Corporation offered her twelve thousand a month.
For a four-thousand-dollar spread, Emily was perfectly willing to ignore men with broken noses occasionally tracking mud across Persian rugs.
Fear, she had discovered, was mostly a luxury for people who got eight hours of sleep.
She ran on lukewarm coffee, cheap painkillers, sheer spite and the knowledge that if she lost this job, Nathan might be transferred to a state facility.
So she stayed.
And because Emily was practical, she learned quickly.
Dante liked files aligned exactly with the edge of his desk.
He hated unnecessary phone calls.
He disliked repetition.
He wanted information in three sentences or less.
He never drank coffee.
He drank espresso.
He didn't like flowers in his office.
He hated people standing behind him.
He wanted his morning schedule printed on cream paper rather than white.
He wanted all numbers written with commas.
And, most importantly, he did not want to be disturbed when someone was dying.
Emily had discovered the last rule by accident.
She had disturbed him anyway.
On a rainy Thursday morning, she sat at the desk outside Dante's double oak doors, battling a spreadsheet that refused to reconcile.
Three million dollars was missing from the South Side distribution network.
She had already traced the money.
Salvatore Genovese.
One of Dante's oldest capos.
Sal had apparently developed a sudden interest in offshore accounts and luxury watches.
Emily adjusted her glasses.
She hated when criminals lacked imagination.
Her intercom buzzed.
“Emily.”
Dante's voice was flat.
“Yes, Mr. Marino?”
“Send Tommy in.”
Emily glanced toward the reception area.
Tommy was a hulking enforcer with a neck thicker than her thigh.
He had been sweating through his custom-tailored suit for twenty minutes.
Emily looked at him.
“He's ready for you.”
Tommy stood slowly.
“Emily…”
“Yes?”
“If I don't walk out—”
“I'll cancel your dental appointment for Tuesday.”
He blinked.
She continued.
“And I'll mail your final check to your mother in Cicero.”
Tommy stared.
“Good luck.”
He nodded stiffly and pushed through the oak doors.
Emily took another sip of terrible coffee.
She gave it three minutes.
At the two-minute-and-forty-second mark, there was a loud thud.
Then the distinct sound of something heavy crashing into reclaimed walnut.
Emily did not flinch.
She moved her coffee mug six inches to the left.
She returned to her spreadsheet.
The intercom buzzed again.
“Emily.”
“Yes?”
“Call maintenance.”
“What happened?”
“I need a new rug.”
She looked at the file beside her.
“Blood?”
A pause.
“Yes.”
“Dark wool or the Persian?”
“The Persian.”
Emily sighed.
“I'll call them.”
Another pause.
“And someone to haul out the trash.”
Emily checked her calendar.
“After lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Fine.”
Click.
She returned to the spreadsheet.
At eleven forty-five, Emily picked up a thick manila folder.
The IRS auditors were arriving at two.
Dante needed to sign several falsified depreciation schedules.
If he didn't, the legitimate shipping front might be frozen.
She stood.
She smoothed her gray skirt.
Then she walked toward the oak doors.
No knock.
She had learned knocking was inefficient.
Emily pushed them open.
The scene inside was chaotic.
But silent.
Tommy was gone.
Probably in the bathroom recovering from his dignity.
Sal Genovese was on his knees in the center of the room.
Two massive guards flanked him.
Dante stood at the window.
Back turned.
A suppressed nine-millimeter pistol hung loosely from his right hand.
He looked at the rain.
Emily walked toward his desk.
The guards shifted.
Dante turned.
His eyes were dead calm.
“Mr. Marino.”
His gaze stayed on her.
“I need your signature.”
Dante looked at the gun in his hand.
Then at her.
“I am in the middle of a personnel issue, Emily.”
“I appreciate that.”
She placed the folder on his desk.
“But the IRS is downstairs in two hours.”
Sal began crying again.
Emily didn't even look at him.
“If I don't have these forms signed, your shell accounts become vulnerable, payroll becomes delayed, and half your men will spend Friday morning complaining to me.”
The guards stared.
Dante remained silent.
Emily opened the folder.
“You don't want that.”
“Emily.”
“Yes?”
“Leave.”
“No.”
The room went still.
Emily held out the pen.
“I'll leave when you sign.”
Sal stared at her in disbelief.
“Emily, please…”
She looked down at him.
“Sal, we are not friends.”
His face fell.
She turned back to Dante.
“I have a migraine developing behind my left eye.”
She tapped the paperwork.
“My coffee is cold.”
Another tap.
“And I am not going to federal prison because you let one of your capos become creatively incompetent with shell companies.”
Dante's jaw tightened.
“He stole three million?”
“Yes.”
“How long did you know?”
“Twelve minutes.”
One guard blinked.
“You traced three million dollars in twelve minutes?”
Emily frowned.
“He used his mother's maiden name.”
She looked genuinely offended.
“It was embarrassing.”
Dante stared at her.
She extended the pen.
“Sign.”
He didn't move.
“Then you can deal with Sal.”
Emily glanced at the Persian rug.
“Preferably in the warehouse.”
Sal looked horrified.
Dante stared at Emily.
She continued.
“We literally just had these rugs steam-cleaned Tuesday.”
Nobody moved.
“The cleaners charged double for biohazard stains last month.”
She pointed at Sal.
“And frankly, he isn't worth the surcharge.”
Silence.
Absolute silence.
Something inside Dante broke.
It was tiny at first.
A twitch around his mouth.
Then his shoulders moved.
Emily frowned.
He covered his mouth.
The guards exchanged terrified looks.
Dante inhaled sharply.
A strange sound escaped his chest.
A wheeze.
Emily waited.
The wheeze became a low rumble.
Then a laugh.
A real laugh.
Deep.
Warm.
Unexpected.
Dante bent forward, covering his face.
He laughed harder.
Nine years of silence came crashing down.
The guards looked horrified.
Sal looked more frightened by the laughter than he had been by the gun.
Dante pointed at Emily.
“The surcharge,” he gasped.
Emily remained expressionless.
He laughed again.
“Not worth the surcharge.”
One of the guards whispered:
“What do we do?”
The other whispered back:
“I don't know.”
Dante wiped tears from his eyes.
He took the pen from Emily.
His fingers brushed hers.
He signed.
Then he looked at Sal.
“Get him out.”
The guards dragged Sal away.
Emily picked up the folder.
“Thank you.”
Dante stared at her.
“You just made me laugh.”
She shrugged.
“Occupational hazard.”
He stared.
She turned to leave.
“Emily.”
She looked back.
“Yes?”
His face had changed.
There was something alive in his eyes now.
“Stay.”
Emily frowned.
“I have work.”
“I know.”
“Then what do you want?”
Dante looked toward the empty space where Sal had been.
“I want you to explain why that money was moved.”
Emily blinked.
“You already know.”
“I want you to tell me.”
She hesitated.
Then sat.
“The money was stolen.”
“I know.”
“No.”
She opened the folder again.
“It was staged.”
Dante's expression hardened.
“What?”
“Sal didn't steal three million.”
“He did.”
“He moved it.”
“Same thing.”
“No.”
Emily pointed to three routing numbers.
“Someone wanted you to believe he stole it.”
Dante leaned forward.
“Why?”
“To get you to kill him.”
The room changed.
Dante stopped breathing.
Emily continued.
“Someone is cleaning out accounts from the inside.”
She turned another page.
“Someone who knows how your company works.”
Dante stared at her.
“Someone close.”
Emily met his eyes.
“Very close.”
And for the first time since Clara's death, Dante Marino wasn't thinking about the woman who had died nine years ago.
He was thinking about the possibility that the people responsible for her death had never really disappeared.
May you like
They had simply waited.
And Emily had just found the first thread.
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