Chapter 1 - The Woman Sleeping in My Bed Knew a Name She Should Never Have Heard
Nobody entered my private bedroom without permission. Men who had worked for me for twenty years knew better, so when I came home at 3:15 a.m. and found a pair of soaked women’s shoes by the door, my hand went straight to the gun beneath my jacket.
I had been awake for thirty-six hours, and I smelled like cold rain, stale smoke, and cheap whiskey. The meeting at the docks had gone badly, one of my lieutenants had stolen ten thousand dollars, and all I wanted was a burning-hot shower and eight uninterrupted hours of sleep.
Then I saw my bedroom door standing open.
Amber light spilled into the hallway, and every trace of exhaustion vanished. I drew my weapon, pushed the door open, checked the bathroom, the closet, every shadowed corner—and then I looked toward my bed.
Someone was sleeping in it.
For one dangerous second, I raised the gun.
Then I recognized her.
Khloe Evans.
My secretary.
She was curled near the edge of my mattress, damp light-brown hair stuck to her cheek, still wearing the cheap gray skirt and white blouse she wore around the office. I lowered the weapon slowly, genuinely unable to understand how the quietest employee in Costa Logistics had somehow ended up asleep in the one room no one dared enter.
Khloe had worked for me for two years. She was twenty-six, drowning in student loans from an art history degree she never used, and she had originally applied to my company because she wanted a steady paycheck and dental insurance.
She had probably expected shipping manifests and angry customers.
Technically, she got both.
What she also got was me.
By her third month, she had undoubtedly realized Costa Logistics was not exactly an ordinary freight company. Containers occasionally had questionable paperwork, large cash deposits appeared without explanations, and well-dressed men held conversations behind closed doors that sensible employees pretended not to hear.
Khloe was sensible.
She never asked questions.
She carried my schedules, delivered my files, and whenever she spoke to me, she looked several inches beside my face rather than directly into my eyes. Her fear was obvious, but unlike most people, she never performed it.
That was why seeing her in my bed was almost absurd.
Then I noticed the manila folder on my desk.
Zoning permits.
The harbor-development documents needed my physical signature before the city council met at seven that morning. I remembered telling Paulie to have someone bring them to the estate.
Apparently, that someone had been Khloe.
I glanced toward the windows, where freezing rain hammered the glass, then back at her soaked trench coat lying on the floor.
That explained the shoes downstairs.
It did not explain the bed.
Later, I would learn Paulie had told her to wait in the upstairs study. He had neglected to mention which damn door led to it.
She must have wandered into my bedroom, found the desk, left the paperwork, and sat down for what she probably told herself would be five minutes.
Her body had apparently overruled her.
I should have woken her.
There were rules in my world, and sleeping in Vincent Costa’s bed was definitely one of the rules people did not break.
But then Khloe shivered.
I noticed the dark circles beneath her eyes, the exhaustion written across her face, and something inside me tightened unexpectedly.
She wasn’t an enemy.
She wasn’t an intruder.
She was an overworked civilian putting in seventy-hour weeks for an organization she had never intended to become part of.
I walked to the closet, pulled out a thick cashmere blanket, and carefully spread it over her.
Khloe sighed in her sleep and curled deeper beneath it.
For reasons I couldn’t explain, I stood there watching her.
Then I crossed to the leather chair beside the window, sat down, and decided I would sleep there instead.
But just as I closed my eyes, Khloe suddenly whispered something in her sleep.
My name.
“Vincent.”
My eyes opened.
She swallowed hard, her brow tightening.
Then she whispered again.
“Don’t give the red ledger to Daniel.”
Every muscle in my body went rigid.
Daniel.
Not Paulie.
Not Marco.
Daniel.
There was only one Daniel in my organization who mattered.
Daniel Costa.
My younger brother.
And the red ledger she had just mentioned was something only three men in my world were supposed to know existed.
Me.
Daniel.
And our father, whose grave had been closed for eleven years.
I stood slowly.
Khloe shifted beneath the blanket.
“No,” she murmured. “He'll kill you.”
My blood turned cold.
“Who?”
Her eyes remained closed.
“Your brother.”
I took one step toward the bed.
“Khloe.”
She didn't wake.
“The container…”
She breathed shakily.
“Thirty-seven.”
Then she went silent.
I stood in the dim room listening to the rain.
Container 37.
Three months earlier, a container marked 37 had vanished from one of our Baltimore routes.
I'd been told it contained ordinary machinery.
But my father had used the same designation years ago for a shipment that never appeared in any customs database.
A shipment connected to the red ledger.
A shipment connected to the night my father died.
I looked at Khloe again.
There were only two explanations.
Either she had accidentally heard things she wasn't supposed to hear.
Or she knew far more than she had ever admitted.
I crossed the room and knelt beside the bed.
“Khloe.”
Her eyes opened halfway.
She looked at me.
And instead of screaming, she whispered:
“I’m sorry.”
Then she saw the gun in my hand.
Her eyes widened.
She sat upright.
For three seconds, neither of us moved.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
She glanced around, confused.
“Your bedroom.”
“I can see that.”
“I thought this was the study.”
“You thought my bedroom was the study?”
“They told me to wait upstairs.”
“Who?”
“Paulie.”
I believed that part.
“What were you saying in your sleep?”
She went pale.
“Nothing.”
“You said my name.”
“No, I…”
“You mentioned Daniel.”
Her breathing changed.
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“You mentioned a red ledger.”
Her face went completely still.
That was enough.
I lowered the gun but didn't put it away.
“Who taught you about that ledger?”
“Nobody.”
“Then how did you know the name?”
She looked down at her hands.
“I shouldn't have said it.”
“That's not an answer.”
“I know.”
I stepped closer.
“What is container thirty-seven?”
Her eyes filled with fear.
“Mr. Costa…”
“Vincent.”
She shook her head.
“I can't.”
“You can.”
“No.”
“Why?”
She looked directly at me.
For the first time in two years, she didn't look beside my face.
She looked straight into my eyes.
“Because my father died looking for it.”
The room went silent.
“Who was your father?”
She swallowed.
“Thomas Evans.”
The name hit me like a punch.
Thomas Evans had been a dock supervisor at Costa Logistics eleven years ago.
He had been one of my father's most trusted employees.
He had disappeared two days before my father was murdered.
And Daniel had told me Thomas ran.
I stared at Khloe.
“You're Thomas Evans's daughter.”
She nodded.
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you wouldn't have hired me.”
“That didn't stop you from applying.”
“No.”
“Why did you?”
Her voice broke.
“To find out what happened to him.”
My grip tightened around the gun.
“You lied to me.”
“I omitted the truth.”
“That is still lying.”
“I know.”
“And now?”
She looked toward the window.
“Now I think I know who killed him.”
“Who?”
She hesitated.
Then whispered:
“Your brother.”
Daniel.
Again.
I stood.
“You'd better start talking.”
Khloe shook her head.
“Not here.”
“Then where?”
“Somewhere your cameras can't hear us.”
I stared at her.
“You know where my cameras are?”
She looked frightened.
“Yes.”
“How?”
She swallowed.
“Because I've spent the last two years learning how your organization works.”
That was the moment I understood.
Khloe Evans had never been my secretary because she needed dental insurance.
She had come into my company for one reason.
Me.
And if she was telling the truth, my own brother had been lying to me for more than a decade.
I made one call.
“Paulie.”
“Yes, boss?”
“Wake everyone.”
A pause.
“Everyone?”
“Everyone.”
“What's happening?”
May you like
I looked at the woman sitting on my bed.
“There's a rat in my family.”
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