Chapter 1 - The Seventh WomanSix women had fled Lorenzo Rossy’s office in less than a month, and I became the seventh after humiliating myself in front of Chicago’s most feared billionaire.
At least, I tried to flee.
Instead, he hired me.
And the mistake I found on his desk that morning eventually led me to something far worse than bad accounting.
A hidden microphone.
A missing woman.
A secret buried inside Rossy Corporation for nearly twenty years.
And enough evidence to bring Lorenzo Rossy’s entire empire to its knees.
The strange part?
When the time finally came to destroy everything his family had built, Lorenzo didn’t try to stop me.
He handed me the match.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
My name is Mara Ellis.
On the morning I met Lorenzo Rossy, I had exactly fifty-three dollars and fourteen cents in my checking account, six days before rent was due, and rainwater leaking through the shoulder seam of a blazer I had bought from a thrift store for nine dollars.
My left shoe was also broken.
Not slightly broken.
The heel had separated from the sole somewhere between the Jackson station and Rossy Tower, forcing me to walk four blocks through downtown Chicago with one leg approximately two inches shorter than the other.
By the time I entered the marble lobby, I looked like someone had attempted to drown an office worker and only partially succeeded.
The receptionist stared at me.
“Can I help you?”
“I have a ten o’clock interview with Mr. Rossy.”
Her eyes moved downward toward my shoe.
Then upward toward my wet hair.
“You’re interviewing to be his executive secretary?”
“Yes.”
The woman’s expression shifted into something between sympathy and concern.
I noticed.
“Is there something I should know?”
“No.”
Too fast.
I narrowed my eyes.
She handed me a visitor badge.
“Fortieth floor.”
The elevator ride took thirty-seven seconds.
I counted because I was trying not to panic.
Rossy Corporation owned commercial real estate, shipping companies, luxury hotels, energy interests, and enough of downtown Chicago that people joked Lorenzo Rossy could walk from the river to the lake without stepping onto property owned by someone else.
The company was legitimate.
Mostly.
The Rossy family’s history was another matter.
Every article I found while preparing for the interview had used carefully chosen phrases.
Old Sicilian connections.
Organized crime allegations.
Unproven associations.
A father who had died in a car explosion when Lorenzo was twenty-two.
An uncle who had disappeared.
Two federal investigations that ended without charges.
One magazine had called Lorenzo Rossy “Chicago’s Last Corporate Prince.”
Another called him “the billionaire nobody says no to twice.”
I had assumed most of it was exaggeration.
I needed the job too badly to care.
When the elevator opened, the fortieth floor smelled of bleach and espresso.
I stepped out.
A broad-shouldered man in a dark suit stood beside the security desk.
He looked at my shoes.
“You’re the new secretary?”
“I’m interviewing.”
“You look injured.”
“Only emotionally.”
His mouth almost twitched.
He held out his hand.
“Gabriel Stone.”
“Mara Ellis.”
He took my visitor badge, checked it, then looked toward a set of enormous black doors.
“You know six people quit?”
So the receptionist hadn’t imagined things.
“I heard the position had turnover.”
“That’s a polite way of saying it.”
“Did he fire them?”
“No.”
“Did they quit?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
Gabriel looked at me for a second too long.
“You should ask them.”
“I would, but I don’t have their numbers.”
“That was probably intentional.”
Not comforting.
He opened the doors.
Lorenzo Rossy sat behind a black stone desk like a man accustomed to deciding whether people stayed or disappeared.
That was my first thought.
My second was that photographs had failed to capture how intimidating he was.
He was thirty-seven.
Dark hair.
Charcoal suit.
Cold gray eyes.
No tie.
One hand resting beside a leather folder.
Not a hair out of place.
I, meanwhile, looked like a raccoon who had been mugged during a thunderstorm.
His eyes went to the clock.
Then me.
“Sit.”
One word.
I stepped forward.
My broken heel collapsed.
I crashed into the front edge of his desk.
My ancient tote bag slid off my shoulder and exploded.
Pennies scattered across confidential-looking contracts.
A bottle of painkillers bounced beside his keyboard.
Two romance novels landed faceup.
My tax handbook hit the floor.
A phone charger wrapped itself around a desk lamp.
And several tampons rolled directly toward Chicago’s most feared billionaire.
A pink gel pen tapped against his wrist.
I froze.
Lorenzo Rossy looked down at the disaster.
I wanted to die.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He said nothing.
“The train broke. My shoe broke. My bag apparently decided to participate.”
Still nothing.
“Apparently, I’m next.”
His eyes lifted.
“You’re late.”
I checked the clock.
10:03.
“I left forty minutes early.”
“Not early enough.”
I bent to collect my things.
Unfortunately, I was still holding a tampon.
His gaze dropped.
I slowly put it behind my back.
This was going beautifully.
“Mr. Rossy, I really need this job.”
His eyebrow moved slightly.
I continued before humiliation could stop me.
“I type ninety words per minute. I know Excel, QuickBooks, SAP, and enough tax law to be annoying at dinner parties. I repaired the payroll system at my last job after our accountant accidentally deleted two quarters of data. Before that, I reconstructed seven years of financial records for a family business that stored receipts in grocery bags.”
His eyes sharpened.
“Why are you unemployed?”
“My former employer’s company closed.”
“Why?”
“His partner stole approximately six hundred thousand dollars.”
“And you didn’t notice?”
“I did.”
A pause.
“Then?”
“I told my employer.”
“And?”
“He accused me of being dramatic.”
“What happened?”
“His partner stole another two hundred thousand and disappeared.”
For the first time, Lorenzo looked mildly interested.
He leaned back.
“The previous secretary didn’t ask questions.”
I stopped gathering pennies.
“She screamed.”
My hand froze.
I looked at him.
“Did you yell at her?”
Silence.
Lorenzo’s expression remained unreadable.
“No.”
That should have relieved me.
It didn’t.
Because while I had been collecting the contents of my bag, one of my romance novels had fallen over an invoice near the edge of Lorenzo’s desk.
The document belonged to Rossy Maritime Logistics.
Shipment of turbine components.
Rotterdam to Chicago.
Insurance.
Handling.
Port fees.
Nothing unusual.
Except one number.
I stared.
Maybe I was wrong.
I leaned closer.
Definitely wrong.
“Mr. Rossy?”
His patience was clearly thinning.
“What?”
“I think someone charged your company twice.”
Silence.
His eyes followed my finger.
“Explain.”
“Invoice 48117 includes inland transport under the primary shipment total.”
He looked at the document.
I continued.
“But then the same transport charge appears here as a separate service invoice.”
“How much?”
“One hundred eighty-six thousand four hundred dollars.”
He looked at me.
I swallowed.
“Approximately.”
His hand moved toward the phone.
“Gabriel.”
The door opened almost instantly.
“Sir?”
“Get D’Amico.”
Gabriel’s expression changed.
“Now?”
“Now.”
Ten minutes later, Rossy Corporation’s chief financial officer entered the office.
Alexander D’Amico looked like every expensive corporate attorney I had ever seen.
Silver tie.
Perfect hair.
A watch worth more than my apartment building.
Lorenzo pushed the documents across the desk.
“Explain.”
D’Amico read them.
His face barely moved.
“Clerical duplication.”
“By whom?”
“I’ll investigate.”
Lorenzo’s eyes turned to me.
“How did you see it?”
I looked at the invoice.
“The tax code is wrong.”
D’Amico frowned.
“What?”
“The first transport charge uses interstate freight classification. The second uses local handling. Same amount, different code.”
D’Amico stared at me.
I suddenly wished I had kept my mouth shut.
Lorenzo asked, “Coincidence?”
“No.”
“How sure?”
“Ninety-five percent.”
“Why not a hundred?”
“Because nobody who works with numbers should claim a hundred until they see the records.”
Lorenzo stared at me.
Then at D’Amico.
“Get the records.”
D’Amico left.
The door closed.
I finished stuffing tampons and romance novels back into my bag.
“Well.”
I stood.
“Thank you for your time.”
Lorenzo frowned.
“Where are you going?”
“I assumed the interview was over.”
“It is.”
I nodded.
“Right.”
“Sit.”
I sat again.
He opened a drawer.
Pulled out a document.
Slid it toward me.
Employment agreement.
I stared.
“You’re hiring me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“You notice things.”
“I also fall into desks.”
“That can be corrected.”
“My shoe broke.”
“That too.”
I stared at the salary.
Then stared again.
“Is this monthly?”
“Annual.”
“Right.”
Still nearly twice what I had earned before.
I looked at him suspiciously.
“Why did six women quit?”
His expression cooled.
“You are unusually concerned with people who no longer work here.”
“They had my job.”
“Yes.”
“So unless you keep a pet tiger in the supply closet, I think their reasons matter.”
Something flashed in his eyes.
Not anger.
Maybe surprise.
He signed the contract.
“They left for personal reasons.”
“All six?”
“Yes.”
“In one month?”
“Yes.”
“That’s statistically weird.”
“Mara.”
The first time he used my first name.
My spine straightened.
“If you want the job, sign.”
I should have walked away.
Every survival instinct I had developed through twenty-eight years of bounced checks, bad landlords, underpaid jobs, and men who smiled before lying told me to leave.
Then I remembered my bank balance.
Fifty-three dollars.
Rent.
My mother’s assisted-living bill.
Student loans.
I signed.
Lorenzo took the contract.
“You begin now.”
I blinked.
“Now?”
“Yes.”
“I’m wearing a broken shoe.”
He looked at Gabriel, who had reappeared silently near the door.
“Have someone purchase shoes.”
I stared.
“I can buy my own shoes.”
“With what?”
My cheeks burned.
Lorenzo’s gaze went briefly toward the pennies I had missed under his desk.
I hated him for noticing.
“I’ll manage.”
“Gabriel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Shoes.”
Gabriel nodded.
I sighed.
“Fine. But I’m paying you back.”
Lorenzo looked almost offended.
“For shoes?”
“For everything.”
Something about my answer made his eyes go colder.
“Good.”
At the time, I thought he meant he respected independence.
Later, I learned Lorenzo Rossy hated debt more than I did.
Especially the kind his family had created.
My first day passed in a blur.
Calendar changes.
Investor calls.
Legal briefs.
A furious hotel manager from Miami.
Three government meetings.
Two catering disasters.
One board member Lorenzo refused to speak to.
By six, I understood why the salary was high.
By eight, I understood why most people feared Lorenzo.
He never shouted.
That was worse.
He could destroy an argument with four words.
“Show me the numbers.”
Or:
“Who authorized this?”
Or, my personal favorite:
“Try that answer again.”
At 9:15, the executive floor emptied.
Gabriel stopped beside my desk.
“You survived.”
“Technically.”
He looked at my new shoes.
“Better?”
“Uncomfortably expensive.”
“He won’t notice the money.”
“I will.”
Gabriel studied me.
“You really plan to repay him?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“Why?”
He smiled faintly.
“Most people around Lorenzo spend their lives trying to get him to buy things.”
“Then most people are smarter than me.”
Gabriel left.
I stayed because Lorenzo stayed.
At 10:40, his office door opened.
“Go home.”
I looked up.
“I’m organizing your Monday files.”
“Tomorrow exists.”
“I heard rumors.”
He stared.
“Go home, Mara.”
I began shutting down.
Then noticed something.
A tiny red light beneath my desk.
I frowned.
Bent lower.
Gone.
Probably a reflection.
I grabbed my bag.
As I passed Lorenzo’s office, I noticed D’Amico’s duplication invoice remained on the side table.
Beside it lay a handwritten note.
THIRD THIS MONTH.
I stopped.
Third duplication?
Before I could read more, Lorenzo appeared behind me.
“You make a habit of reading documents that aren’t yours?”
I turned.
“No.”
His eyes moved toward the note.
Then back.
“You saw it.”
“I saw four words.”
“Forget them.”
“That usually makes people remember things.”
“Mara.”
Something about his tone changed.
Not threatening.
Warning.
I lowered my voice.
“Was the invoice fraud?”
His jaw tightened.
“Go home.”
I did.
The next morning, I arrived at 7:10.
Gabriel was already there.
“So eager?”
“Terrified of being late.”
“Good instinct.”
I sat.
My desk looked exactly as I had left it.
Except one thing.
My stapler had moved.
Three inches.
I knew because I was irritating about desk organization.
I opened the drawer.
Everything seemed normal.
Then I remembered the tiny red light.
I crouched.
Underneath the desktop was a black plastic square smaller than my thumb.
I stared.
A microphone.
Not a computer microphone.
Not part of the desk phone.
A hidden listening device.
My stomach dropped.
I reached toward it.
A hand closed around my wrist.
I nearly screamed.
Lorenzo stood behind me.
His eyes were fixed on the device.
For the first time since meeting him, I saw genuine shock on his face.
“Don’t touch it.”
I looked up.
“You didn’t put that there?”
His eyes met mine.
“No.”
The office suddenly felt colder.
“Then who did?”
Lorenzo released my wrist.
He stood slowly.
His face became completely unreadable.
“Gabriel.”
Security arrived.
Within an hour, they found five more devices.
One beneath my desk.
One inside Lorenzo’s conference room.
One behind a painting in his office.
One inside the executive kitchen.
And one inside the women’s restroom.
That was when my fear changed shape.
Six women had fled Lorenzo Rossy’s office.
Not because Lorenzo frightened them.
Because somebody had been listening.
And when Gabriel pulled three archived HR files that afternoon, I found something else.
Every one of those women had reported the same thing before leaving.
Someone had entered her apartment.
Nothing stolen.
Nothing visibly damaged.
Just evidence that somebody had been there.
Lorenzo stood beside me as I read the reports.
His face darkened.
“I was never told.”
“Who receives HR complaints?”
“D’Amico.”
The CFO.
The man whose invoice contained the first error I had found.
I looked at Lorenzo.
He looked at me.
Neither said it.
We didn’t need to.
The duplicate invoice had not gotten me hired by accident.
Someone inside Rossy Corporation was stealing money.
Someone was listening to Lorenzo’s office.
And six women before me had gotten close enough to notice.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
One message.
QUIT TODAY.
A second appeared.
YOU DON’T WANT TO BECOME NUMBER SEVEN.
I stared.
Lorenzo took the phone from my hand.
His face went still.
Then he looked toward the glass walls surrounding his empire.
For the first time, I understood something that changed everything.
Lorenzo Rossy wasn’t the monster inside Rossy Corporation.
He might be the biggest prisoner in it.
And whoever had been waiting for me to notice had just made their first mistake.
They assumed fear would make me run.
They didn’t know I was too broke, too angry, and apparently too stupid to do the sensible thing.
I looked at Lorenzo.
“I’m not quitting.”
His jaw tightened.
“You should.”
“Is that an order?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“You work for me.”
“Then fire me.”
Silence.
Lorenzo stared.
I folded my arms.
“You hired me because I notice things.”
His expression hardened.
“So let me notice.”
“Mara—”
“Six women ran.”
I pointed toward the hidden microphone sealed inside an evidence bag.
“I want to know what they were running from.”
For several seconds he said nothing.
Then Lorenzo looked through the glass toward forty floors of a corporation carrying his family name.
When he spoke, his voice was almost too quiet to hear.
“So do I.”
That was the moment my job changed.
May you like
I was no longer Lorenzo Rossy’s secretary.
I just didn’t know what I had become instead.
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