Chapter 4 - The Floor Beneath the FortiethAfter the call, Lorenzo changed everything.
Security badges.
Server access.
Drivers.
Routes.
Meetings.
For three days, Rossy Tower operated like nothing had happened while underneath the surface Lorenzo quietly locked down his own company.
I discovered something unexpected during those three days.
He trusted me.
Not completely.
Lorenzo probably didn’t trust oxygen completely.
But enough.
He gave me access to historical vendor records.
His private calendar.
Board archives.
Old acquisitions.
Files that made corporate auditors sweat.
“You realize I can now see exactly how much money you make?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“It would bother me.”
“You have fifty-three dollars.”
“Forty-one now.”
He looked up.
“What happened?”
“I bought lunch.”
His expression darkened.
I sighed.
“Please don’t offer me money.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You were thinking it aggressively.”
He returned to his papers.
I smiled.
Working with Lorenzo was strange.
Everyone else approached him like he might detonate.
I treated him like an overworked manager with terrible social skills.
Apparently he found this refreshing.
Or intolerable.
It was hard to tell.
Late Thursday, I found something hidden in the building plans.
The executive floors were numbered thirty-eight through forty.
But the architectural drawings showed an additional utility level.
39M.
Not listed in current elevator programming.
I pointed.
“What’s this?”
Lorenzo frowned.
“I don’t know.”
“That’s comforting.”
Gabriel checked physical security maps.
Nothing.
We accessed construction records from 1998.
There.
“Executive archive level,” I read.
Lorenzo shook his head.
“No archive exists there.”
“Maybe somebody forgot to tell the archive.”
The service elevator still had a keyed switch for 39M.
Gabriel found the old key in a retired facilities box.
We went after midnight.
Because apparently my life had transformed into the world’s most expensive haunted-house tour.
The elevator opened to darkness.
Dust.
Cold air.
No windows.
My phone flashlight caught metal shelves.
Hundreds.
Files.
Old computers.
Boxes.
Lorenzo stepped out.
“This floor was sealed before I took over.”
“By who?”
“My father.”
Of course.
We searched.
Financial records.
Employee files.
Security tapes.
Photographs.
Then I found a desk.
One desk.
Lamp.
Chair.
Tape recorder.
And a name engraved beneath the drawer.
EVELYN ROSSY.
Lorenzo stared.
“This was hers.”
His voice had gone quiet.
The drawers were empty except for one envelope.
LORENZO – AGE 18.
He opened it.
A birthday card.
Never delivered.
Inside:
My son,
If you are reading this, you are old enough to understand that loving someone and staying near them are not always the same thing.
I have watched from farther away than I ever wanted.
You are becoming a good man inside a system designed to punish goodness.
Do not let them convince you cruelty is strength.
—Mom
Lorenzo sat.
I turned away.
Privacy inside grief.
After several minutes, he said, “Mara.”
I looked back.
He held another paper.
“Come here.”
It was a list.
Names.
Rossy executives.
Judges.
Police officials.
Union officers.
Politicians.
Contractors.
Beside each name was a status.
Paid.
Controlled.
Threatened.
Unknown.
I swallowed.
“This is blackmail.”
“Yes.”
One name near the bottom:
Alexander D’Amico.
Status:
CONTROLLED.
I stared.
“He isn’t the mastermind.”
“Maybe not.”
Gabriel found an adjacent cabinet.
Inside were VHS tapes labeled by date.
Surveillance.
Meetings.
Bedrooms.
Hotel rooms.
People had been recorded secretly.
That was the real empire.
Not shipping.
Not hotels.
Information.
Lorenzo’s father had controlled people by collecting their secrets.
No wonder investigations died.
No wonder politicians protected Rossy Corporation.
No wonder nobody spoke.
“We need to destroy this,” I said.
Lorenzo’s face changed.
“No.”
I stared.
“What?”
“We need to preserve it.”
“For leverage?”
His eyes turned cold.
“For evidence.”
Relief.
Then fear.
“If these recordings exist, somebody still has copies.”
“Yes.”
“And microphones on your floor mean the system never stopped.”
“Yes.”
Gabriel opened a server cabinet.
Still powered.
A green light blinked.
My stomach dropped.
“This floor is active.”
He traced the cable.
Network connected.
Someone had been using the sealed level continuously.
Then footsteps sounded from the elevator corridor.
We froze.
Gabriel drew a gun.
I looked at Lorenzo.
He pulled me behind a row of shelves.
My heart pounded.
The elevator opened.
Two men entered.
One carried a flashlight.
The other said, “He found the invoice trail.”
I recognized the voice.
D’Amico.
Gabriel’s jaw tightened.
The second voice I didn’t know.
“Then the girl needs to go.”
My blood turned cold.
D’Amico answered.
“She’s more useful alive.”
“For what?”
“Lorenzo listens to her.”
Silence.
The unknown man laughed.
“So quickly?”
“You haven’t watched them.”
I looked at Lorenzo.
His expression was murderous.
The men continued.
“The mother wants contact.”
D’Amico said, “No.”
“She’ll force it.”
“Then we move her.”
Evelyn.
They knew where she was.
My hand tightened around Lorenzo’s sleeve.
The unknown voice said, “What about Stone?”
“Which one?”
“Gabriel.”
“He suspects his father.”
“He should.”
Gabriel went pale.
D’Amico continued.
“Thomas was weak.”
The unknown man laughed.
“Thomas was loyal for thirty years.”
“He became weak at the end.”
Gabriel looked like he’d been punched.
His father had been involved.
Then D’Amico said something worse.
“He should have died with Carlo.”
Lorenzo stopped breathing.
Carlo Rossy.
His father.
The explosion.
D’Amico knew something.
The men moved deeper into the floor.
Gabriel whispered into his radio.
No response.
Jammed.
Lorenzo mouthed, “Stairs.”
We moved quietly.
I stepped backward.
My heel caught a loose cable.
A metal box fell.
Crash.
Footsteps stopped.
“Mara,” D’Amico called into the darkness.
My blood froze.
No point hiding.
Lorenzo stepped out first.
D’Amico’s flashlight landed on him.
For once, the CFO looked genuinely surprised.
“Lorenzo.”
“Alexander.”
Two men aimed weapons.
Gabriel emerged beside Lorenzo.
D’Amico sighed.
“This is disappointing.”
Lorenzo’s voice was calm.
“Tell me about my father.”
D’Amico smiled sadly.
“Still that boy.”
“What happened?”
“You already know.”
“The explosion.”
D’Amico looked at the unknown man.
Then back.
“Carlo wanted out.”
Lorenzo stared.
“What?”
“Your mother changed him.”
D’Amico continued.
“After she disappeared, he spent years telling everyone she betrayed him.”
“But?”
“But he began dismantling the old arrangement.”
Exactly what Lorenzo later did.
Like father.
Like son.
“He planned to expose the network.”
Lorenzo’s face went blank.
“So you killed him.”
D’Amico laughed.
“I was twenty-nine.”
“Answer.”
“No.”
“Who?”
D’Amico’s expression changed.
“Your uncle.”
Lorenzo’s missing uncle.
Salvatore Rossy.
The family member who supposedly left for Sicily after Carlo’s death.
I remembered articles.
Never seen again.
“Salvatore is alive,” I whispered.
D’Amico looked at me.
“You really are clever.”
A chill moved through me.
Lorenzo’s eyes hardened.
“Where is he?”
“Closer than you think.”
The lights died.
Gunfire exploded.
I dropped.
Lorenzo covered me.
Gabriel fired.
Somebody shouted.
Then emergency lights activated.
D’Amico and the unknown man were gone.
A service door stood open.
Lorenzo grabbed my face.
“Are you hit?”
“No.”
His hands were shaking.
Not visibly unless you were close.
I was close.
“Lorenzo.”
“I told you to leave.”
“Now isn’t the time.”
“I told you.”
His voice cracked slightly.
I had never heard that before.
Something changed between us.
Not romance.
Not yet.
Something more dangerous.
Attachment.
Gabriel returned.
“They escaped through old mechanical access.”
“Security?”
“Offline.”
Lorenzo stood.
“We get out.”
I looked toward the tapes.
“The evidence.”
“Later.”
“But—”
“Mara.”
His hand closed around mine.
“We are leaving.”
I went.
In the car, I realized he had not released my hand.
Neither had I.
Chicago lights moved outside.
Finally Lorenzo looked down.
He released me slowly.
“Sorry.”
I stared at my fingers.
“It’s fine.”
Gabriel watched through the mirror and wisely said nothing.
Then my phone buzzed.
A message.
Photo attachment.
My apartment.
Taken from inside.
My mother’s framed picture on the shelf.
Below:
NEXT TIME WE WAIT FOR YOU.
Lorenzo saw it.
His face changed.
“No.”
“What?”
“You’re not going home.”
I looked at him.
“That sounded dangerously like an order.”
“It is.”
“Where am I supposed to go?”
“My house.”
I almost laughed.
“Absolutely not.”
“Mara.”
“No.”
“Your apartment is compromised.”
“I’ll stay at a hotel.”
“They can find you.”
“I’ll stay with a friend.”
“They can find her too.”
I hated that he was right.
“I am not moving into your billionaire fortress.”
Gabriel said from the front, “Technically it’s more of a penthouse.”
I glared.
“Not helping.”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“No debt.”
The phrase stopped me.
He remembered.
“You owe me nothing.”
I swallowed.
“Temporary.”
“Yes.”
“Separate rooms.”
“Obviously.”
“No bodyguards inside my bedroom.”
His eyebrow lifted.
“Was that being considered?”
“I don’t know how billionaires operate.”
“For your information, inefficiently.”
I laughed.
He looked surprised.
So did I.
Then the seriousness returned.
I looked at the photo again.
Someone had entered my home.
The seventh secretary had officially become a target.
“Fine.”
Lorenzo nodded.
Then quietly:
“I won’t let them touch you.”
I looked at him.
There was no arrogance in the sentence.
Only fear.
And that frightened me far more than confidence would have.
May you like
Because somewhere between one broken heel and a hidden floor, Lorenzo Rossy had started caring whether I lived.
And whoever was watching us already knew.
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