Chapter 5 - The Billionaire Who Couldn’t SleepLorenzo’s penthouse occupied three floors overlooking Lake Michigan.
I expected gold.
There was no gold.
I expected ridiculous statues.
There were none.
I expected evidence that attractive women routinely wandered around wearing expensive robes.
Nothing.
The place was immaculate, dark, quiet, and almost aggressively lonely.
“You live here alone?”
“Yes.”
“Why so much space?”
He looked around.
“I bought the building.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It answers most questions.”
Gabriel carried my emergency overnight bag toward the guest suite.
I frowned.
“When did somebody get that?”
“Security collected essentials from your apartment.”
“They went inside?”
“Yes.”
“With whose permission?”
Lorenzo stopped walking.
Minefield.
Gabriel quietly disappeared.
Smart man.
Lorenzo turned.
“Mine.”
“Wrong answer.”
“Mara—”
“You said no debt and separate rooms. You did not say your employees could enter my apartment and pack my underwear.”
“They didn’t.”
I stared.
He looked almost uncomfortable.
“A woman from the security team did.”
“Still weird.”
“Yes.”
“Ask next time.”
He hesitated.
Then nodded.
“You’re right.”
I blinked.
That had been unexpectedly easy.
“You admitted that.”
“Yes.”
“Are you feeling sick?”
“Mara.”
“Sorry.”
He walked away.
I smiled.
The first night, I barely slept.
At 2:13 a.m., I went downstairs for water.
Lorenzo stood on the terrace.
Barefoot.
White shirt.
No jacket.
Whiskey in his hand.
Untouched.
I opened the door.
He looked over.
“You should be sleeping.”
“So should you.”
“I don’t sleep much.”
“That sounds medically terrible.”
“It’s efficient.”
“No one has ever described insomnia as efficient.”
He almost smiled.
I joined him.
Chicago stretched below.
The lake was black.
Wind moved around the building.
For a while, we said nothing.
Then I asked, “Do you believe D’Amico?”
“About?”
“Your father wanting out.”
Lorenzo stared toward the water.
“I don’t know.”
“What did you think of him?”
“As a child?”
“Yes.”
“He was everything.”
The simplicity hurt.
“After your mother died?”
“He changed.”
“How?”
“Colder.”
Lorenzo leaned against the railing.
“He taught me that emotion makes people vulnerable.”
“Cheerful parenting.”
“He was Sicilian.”
“That is not a medical condition.”
A small laugh escaped him.
I had never heard Lorenzo laugh properly.
It changed his whole face.
I looked at him too long.
He noticed.
I looked away.
Dangerous.
“What about your family?” he asked.
“Much less billionaire.”
“I gathered.”
“My father left when I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t.”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“That sounded rehearsed.”
“It is.”
Truth was less convenient.
My father had left because my mother’s memory problems began much earlier than I admitted.
Little things.
Mood changes.
Confusion.
He couldn’t handle it.
I became the one who handled everything.
Bills.
My brother.
Eventually my mother.
People praised me for being strong.
What they meant was nobody else wanted the job.
“My mother lives in assisted care.”
Lorenzo said nothing.
I appreciated that.
“No pity?”
“I assume you get enough of it.”
“Yes.”
“What does she have?”
I hesitated.
“Early-onset Alzheimer’s.”
His gaze softened.
“That’s why you need the job.”
“One reason.”
“How much does the facility cost?”
“No.”
“I didn’t ask to pay.”
“You were thinking aggressively again.”
He looked offended.
“You think very little of my self-control.”
“You bought me shoes after knowing me eight minutes.”
“Your shoe was broken.”
“Still.”
We fell quiet.
Then he asked, “Why won’t you let anyone help?”
I looked at him.
“That is rich coming from you.”
“Answer.”
“Why?”
“Curiosity.”
I sighed.
“Because help changes shape.”
He waited.
“My father used to help.”
“When?”
“When things were easy.”
I stared at the lake.
“Then every favor became evidence that I owed him compliance.”
Lorenzo’s jaw tightened.
“If you don’t want my help, say no.”
“I do.”
“And I stop.”
I looked at him.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Even if you think I’m making the wrong decision?”
“No.”
I laughed.
“So you don’t stop.”
“I stop paying. I reserve the right to tell you you’re wrong.”
“That I can live with.”
The wind shifted.
Our shoulders were almost touching.
I became very aware of him.
Too aware.
I stepped back.
Lorenzo noticed.
Neither said anything.
The next morning, Gabriel arrived with news.
They found Rebecca Nash.
Secretary number one.
She had something.
A copy of an audio recording.
She refused to send it electronically.
We drove to Wisconsin.
Lorenzo insisted I stay.
I insisted I come.
Naturally, I won through exhaustion.
Rebecca lived outside Kenosha with her husband and infant son.
The second she saw Lorenzo, she backed away.
I stepped between them.
“He isn’t here to hurt you.”
“That’s what they said.”
“Who?”
“The men who broke into my house.”
Lorenzo remained outside.
Smart.
Rebecca invited me in.
She gave me a cassette tape.
Old-fashioned.
“Where did you get this?”
“Inside the desk.”
“What desk?”
“Your desk.”
My stomach dropped.
“The microphone recorded onto this?”
“No.”
She shook her head.
“I found a small recorder taped beneath the drawer my second day.”
“So the surveillance was already there.”
“Yes.”
“Why take it?”
“I thought Mr. Rossy was recording me.”
Reasonable.
“What did you hear?”
Rebecca began shaking.
“One conversation.”
She put the tape into an old player.
Static.
Then voices.
Carlo Rossy.
Lorenzo’s father.
I recognized him from archived interviews.
Second voice:
Salvatore Rossy.
His brother.
Carlo said, “Evelyn knows everything.”
Salvatore answered, “Then deal with her.”
“I won’t.”
“She’ll destroy us.”
“Maybe we deserve it.”
Silence.
Salvatore:
“You’ve become weak.”
Carlo:
“No. I became a father.”
Then the recording ended.
Lorenzo stood outside the doorway.
He had heard.
Rebecca looked at him.
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded once.
“Thank you.”
We took the tape.
On the drive home, Lorenzo said nothing for fifty miles.
Then:
“He tried.”
I knew what he meant.
His father.
Maybe not innocent.
But trying to stop.
“That matters.”
“Does it?”
“Yes.”
“It didn’t save anyone.”
“No.”
I looked at him.
“But it means change was possible.”
He stared ahead.
I wondered if he understood I wasn’t only talking about Carlo.
Back in Chicago, Gabriel found the source of Thomas Stone’s dead credentials.
Someone inside Rossy Protection had reactivated them.
The authorization came from the chairman’s legacy account.
Lorenzo’s father’s account.
A dead man.
But the biometric fallback attached to it belonged to—
Salvatore Rossy.
The missing uncle.
Alive.
Active.
Controlling the system from somewhere inside the Rossy network.
Then another discovery.
Andrea Mills had accessed the hidden floor three weeks before I arrived.
She copied one file.
A list titled VENDETTA.
I opened it.
Names.
Dozens.
Each attached to dates, payments, incidents.
Near the bottom:
EVELYN ROSSY – unresolved.
CARLO ROSSY – resolved.
THOMAS STONE – resolved.
I looked at Gabriel.
His face became empty.
His father.
“Resolved means killed,” he said.
Lorenzo’s eyes went cold.
Then I saw another name.
MARA ELLIS.
My entire body froze.
Beside it:
PENDING.
Dated two days before my interview.
I stared.
“That’s impossible.”
Lorenzo grabbed the file.
“You were selected before you applied.”
“I applied from a public posting.”
Gabriel looked at me.
“Who sent you the posting?”
I thought.
My friend Natalie.
She had texted it.
But she found jobs online constantly.
“Where did the link originate?”
Gabriel traced it.
A recruiter.
Outside agency.
Ownership?
A Rossy shell corporation.
The room went silent.
I whispered, “They wanted me here.”
Lorenzo turned.
“Why?”
I thought about my resume.
Bookkeeping.
Tax reconstruction.
Fraud detection.
My mother.
My father.
Nothing.
Then I remembered.
“My old employer.”
“The one whose partner stole money?”
“Yes.”
“What about him?”
“The stolen funds moved through a freight brokerage before disappearing.”
Gabriel searched.
Brokerage name:
Lombardi Transit.
Owned by Rossy Maritime until nine years ago.
Lorenzo’s face changed.
“You found one of their accounts before coming here.”
Without knowing.
I had stumbled into the network once already.
My former employer’s company failed because its partner was connected to the same laundering structure.
Someone noticed me.
Someone decided to place me near Lorenzo.
To see what I would find.
Or to use me.
I felt sick.
“I wasn’t hired by accident.”
Lorenzo looked at me.
“No.”
The interview.
The public posting.
The duplicate invoice.
All staged.
Except one thing.
My broken heel.
My pennies.
My embarrassment.
Those were unfortunately authentic.
I laughed once.
Hysterical.
Lorenzo frowned.
“What?”
“Nothing. I’m just relieved the tampons were not part of a criminal conspiracy.”
He stared.
Then Gabriel laughed.
Actually laughed.
Even Lorenzo smiled.
The moment passed.
Then my phone rang.
My mother’s care facility.
I answered.
“Hello?”
“Mara, this is Denise from Lakeshore.”
My stomach dropped.
“What happened?”
“Your mother is fine.”
I exhaled.
“But a man came asking about you.”
Everything stopped.
“What man?”
“He said he was your uncle.”
“I don’t have an uncle.”
Lorenzo’s face changed.
Denise continued.
“He left something.”
“What?”
“A photograph.”
“What photograph?”
She hesitated.
“It’s of you. As a baby.”
I had never seen baby photos of myself.
My father took most when he left.
“Who was in it?”
“You.”
“And?”
“A woman.”
“Who?”
“The back has a name.”
I gripped the phone.
“What name?”
“Evelyn Rossy.”
Lorenzo stared.
I stopped breathing.
His mother.
Holding me as a baby.
Twenty-eight years ago.
I looked at Lorenzo.
No.
Impossible.
Unless my connection to the Rossy family had begun long before I ever walked into that office.
Long before I found a duplicate invoice.
May you like
Long before six secretaries ran.
Maybe even before I was born.
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