Chapter 1 - Saturday Evening
The rain had turned Chicago into a smear of silver beyond the boardroom windows.
Arthur Costello stood at the head of the polished walnut table, listening to his younger brother explain why a wedding apparently required Arthur to acquire a woman.
On the screen behind him, a shipping forecast waited beneath the blue logo of Carmichael Logistics. Forty-seven vessels. Twelve ports. Three months of projections.
Arthur preferred all of them to the current conversation.
“You can’t arrive alone,” Leo said.
“I can.”
“Camila’s family will take it personally.”
“Then they should develop other interests.”
Leo Costello exhaled and loosened his tie.
At thirty-three, he had inherited the Costello smile without inheriting Arthur’s talent for making a room uncomfortable merely by entering it.
Tomorrow night, Leo would marry Camila Carmichael beneath five thousand white roses at the Lakeview Conservatory, in front of four hundred guests whose combined net worth could probably purchase a small country.
Their marriage was not arranged.
That was the problem.
If it had been arranged, nobody would have expected feelings from anyone.
Leo loved Camila.
Camila loved Leo.
And suddenly both families had become obsessed with appearances.
“Sophia has already bought a dress,” Leo continued.
“An unfortunate investment.”
“She bought it because everyone assumed—”
“Everyone should stop assuming.”
Leo stared at him.
Arthur closed the shipping forecast.
“Your future sister-in-law spent forty minutes explaining why a handbag should cost more than a dockworker’s car,” he said. “I would rather escort the handbag.”
Leo barked out a laugh.
The door opened before he could answer.
Beatrice Gallagher entered carrying a leather folder, a wet beige coat folded over one arm.
Her auburn curls had escaped their clip. A black ink stain marked the edge of her chin. Rain darkened one shoulder of her white blouse, and her practical black shoes squeaked faintly against the marble.
She looked nothing like the women usually invited to Costello events.
Arthur noticed immediately.
He disliked that he noticed.
“Page forty-two,” Beatrice said, placing the folder in front of him. “Richard Spatafora has been treating company money as a personal allowance. If you would prefer a more delicate description, hire a more expensive accountant.”
Leo looked from her practical shoes to his brother’s face.
Arthur had gone still in a way that usually made men stop breathing.
Beatrice merely removed her glasses and polished them with the corner of her blouse.
“How much?” Arthur asked.
“Enough to cause trouble. Less than he believes you’ll notice.”
She opened the folder and pointed to a column.
“And this part exposes people who have nothing to do with his stupidity. They need protecting before anyone starts making speeches about loyalty.”
Arthur read the page.
Seventy-eight thousand moved through a shell vendor.
Thirty-two thousand disguised as maintenance.
Several small cash withdrawals.
Nothing large enough to trigger an automatic review individually.
Together, they painted a different picture.
Beatrice stood beside him without fidgeting, smelling faintly of rain, diner coffee, and the vanilla hand cream she kept beside her keyboard.
He had employed her for two years.
During those two years, he had seen executives lie to him, captains flatter him, attorneys carefully avoid disagreeing with him, and grown men reconsider their life choices when Arthur asked them to sit down.
Beatrice had once told him his depreciation schedule was “aggressively stupid.”
She had then explained why.
She had been correct.
Arthur respected competence.
He respected courage more.
“Give me the authorization,” he said.
She slid another sheet across.
“And review my salary while you’re remembering how useful I am.”
Leo made a strangled sound.
Arthur signed.
Then he handed back the pen.
Beatrice tucked it into her folder.
Arthur watched her do it.
Perhaps that was why the next sentence came so easily.
“Come to my brother’s wedding on Saturday.”
Beatrice laughed.
The sound broke off when neither man joined her.
“As your accountant?”
“As my date.”
“No.”
She put on her glasses.
“I do your books. I do not do your social bidding.”
Leo suddenly found a reason to check his phone in the corridor.
The door closed behind him.
Arthur waited.
Beatrice remained standing, her coat dripping onto carpet that had been imported from Italy and cost enough to make most sane people angry.
“I don’t own a ball gown,” she continued. “I don’t enjoy being assessed by women who mistake a dress size for a moral failing. And if somebody insults me, I won’t smile to preserve your family’s evening.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.”
“You say that because you haven’t heard me at full volume.”
She picked up the folder.
“Find somebody who wants the invitation.”
“Your brother’s payment is due Monday.”
Her fingers stopped against the leather.
Outside, rain clicked against the glass, small and precise.
Arthur saw the color leave her face before she turned back.
“Which brother?” she asked, although they both knew she had only one.
“Tommy. Sixty thousand dollars. The O’Malley crew.”
She set down the folder carefully, as if a sudden movement might make those words real.
“That has nothing to do with my work.”
“No.”
“Then why are you saying it?”
Arthur came around the table.
She stayed where she was, but her chin lifted.
He understood immediately that he had frightened her without making her smaller.
That was Beatrice.
Fear did not make her retreat.
It made her sharpen.
“I can clear it,” he said. “Completely.”
Beatrice stared at him.
Somewhere in the corridor, Leo laughed at something on his phone.
The ordinary sound was almost obscene.
“What do you want in exchange?”
Arthur held her gaze.
“Saturday evening.”
For five long seconds, nothing moved.
Then Beatrice slapped him.
It was not a dramatic slap.
There was no theatrical windup.
Just one quick crack of her palm against his cheek.
Arthur’s head turned an inch.
Silence followed.
Beatrice looked almost as surprised as he was.
Then anger returned.
“You do not,” she said quietly, “use my brother to buy access to me.”
Arthur touched his jaw.
“No.”
“That sounded very much like exactly what you did.”
“You’re right.”
Her expression changed.
Not softened.
Changed.
Arthur Costello did not apologize often.
Mostly because he rarely acted before thinking.
He had done so now, and that irritated him nearly as much as the fact that she had struck him.
“I presented it badly,” he said.
“You presented it like a man shopping.”
“I’m not asking for sex.”
Her face turned scarlet.
“I did not say you were.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I was thinking of throwing you through your own window.”
“That would require more upper-body strength.”
“Keep talking.”
Something dangerously close to amusement moved through him.
He killed it immediately.
Arthur crossed to the table and opened another folder.
“This came to me this morning.”
He slid a photograph toward her.
Tommy Gallagher stood outside a repair garage in Bridgeport, speaking to Patrick O’Malley.
Patrick was the younger cousin of Declan O’Malley, whose crew controlled gambling, protection collections, and several illegal loan operations south of the river.
Tommy looked frightened.
“He said he stopped gambling,” Beatrice whispered.
“Maybe he did.”
“You just said he owes them sixty thousand.”
“I said they claim he owes them sixty thousand.”
She looked up.
Arthur placed a second page beside the photograph.
“Your brother borrowed twelve.”
“Twelve?”
“Eight months ago. He made six payments. According to the records I obtained, he should owe less than nine thousand.”
Her eyes moved rapidly over the numbers.
“Then where did sixty come from?”
“That is what I intend to learn.”
“And Saturday?”
Arthur leaned against the table.
“The Carmichael wedding brings every person connected to the north-side shipping consortium into one place. O’Malley representatives will be there. So will Richard Spatafora.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“The man stealing from Carmichael Logistics.”
“Yes.”
“You think they’re connected.”
“I think Richard has been moving money through vendors that overlap with companies used by O’Malley.”
Beatrice looked again at the picture of Tommy.
“So you need me at the wedding because I found Richard’s theft.”
“In part.”
“What’s the other part?”
Arthur hesitated.
That was another thing he rarely did.
Beatrice noticed.
“Say it.”
“I trust you.”
She gave a short, humorless laugh.
“You threaten me with my brother and then tell me you trust me.”
“I gave you information I could have withheld.”
“And attached a date to it.”
“You already said no.”
“Yes.”
“And Tommy’s debt will be frozen tonight regardless.”
That stopped her.
“What?”
“I already spoke to O’Malley.”
“When?”
“Before you entered this room.”
Beatrice stared.
Arthur continued.
“No one touches your brother. No interest accrues. No collection until I determine what happened.”
“Then why ask me to go?”
“Because I want you there.”
The simplicity of it unsettled her more than the bargaining had.
Arthur looked away first.
“The wedding will be unpleasant,” he added. “People will smile while trying to determine who has more money, more influence, or a more embarrassing divorce. I would prefer to spend the evening beside someone who understands numbers and dislikes most of the same people I do.”
“You barely know what people I dislike.”
“I keep records.”
“That is deeply creepy.”
“Occupational hazard.”
Beatrice folded her arms.
“If I agree, there are conditions.”
Arthur almost smiled.
“Of course there are.”
“No dress you choose.”
“Fine.”
“No jewelry that needs armed insurance.”
“Fine.”
“No touching me without warning.”
His gaze flickered to hers.
“Fine.”
“No pretending we’re sleeping together.”
“That had not occurred to me.”
“It has occurred to everyone else in this building.”
“Everyone else in this building lacks discipline.”
“And Tommy?”
“Protected.”
“Even if I refuse?”
“Yes.”
She searched his face for a trap.
Arthur let her.
There were things Arthur Costello was capable of doing that Beatrice Gallagher would never approve of.
There were places his money came from that could not be explained politely.
But he would not lie to her about this.
Finally, she exhaled.
“I’ll go.”
Arthur’s chest tightened unexpectedly.
“But,” she continued, raising one finger, “if some woman named Sophia tells me my dress makes me look poor, I am telling her she looks financed.”
Arthur laughed.
Actually laughed.
It startled them both.
Beatrice blinked.
Then she collected her folder.
“Seven o’clock?”
“Six.”
“Why?”
“Photographs.”
“No.”
“Family requirement.”
“I’m not family.”
Arthur looked at her.
For a moment, something moved behind his eyes that Beatrice could not identify.
“No,” he said.
Not yet, some dangerous corner of her mind supplied.
She hated that thought instantly.
She turned toward the door.
“Beatrice.”
She looked back.
Arthur held up the page containing Tommy’s loan record.
“I’ll find out who changed the number.”
Her expression tightened.
“You’d better.”
She left.
Arthur stood alone in the boardroom.
Several seconds later, Leo pushed the door open.
“Did she slap you?”
Arthur turned slowly.
Leo grinned.
“I heard it from the elevator.”
“Leave.”
“Oh, this wedding is going to be magnificent.”
“Leo.”
“You could have asked Sophia.”
“I would rather be slapped twice.”
Leo’s grin disappeared gradually.
Then he looked toward the door through which Beatrice had vanished.
“You like her.”
Arthur’s expression turned cold.
“No.”
Leo laughed again.
That night, Beatrice drove south through rain in a twelve-year-old Honda with a cracked cup holder and an engine light that had been glowing since February.
Tommy lived above his repair shop.
She found him sitting on the floor of the office with his back against a filing cabinet.
His left eye was bruised.
Beatrice stopped breathing.
“Who did that?”
Tommy looked away.
She crossed the room and grabbed his face gently.
“Who?”
“Patrick.”
Arthur had said no one would touch him.
That promise had been made hours after the bruise, she reminded herself.
“What happened?”
Tommy’s voice cracked.
“I screwed up.”
“How much did you borrow?”
“Twelve.”
“Then why do they say sixty?”
His silence lasted too long.
Beatrice’s stomach dropped.
“Tommy.”
“I signed something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know.”
“You signed something you didn’t read?”
“I thought it was the payment schedule.”
She closed her eyes.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I was trying to keep the shop.”
“So you borrowed from gangsters?”
“The bank said no. I had three employees. Eddie’s wife was pregnant. Mike had just gotten custody of his daughter. What was I supposed to do?”
“Tell me.”
“You were paying Mom’s medical bills.”
“That didn’t mean—”
“I was ashamed.”
Beatrice sat beside him.
For a long time, they said nothing.
Then Tommy reached into a desk drawer.
“There’s something else.”
He handed her an envelope.
Inside was a photocopy of a wire authorization.
Carmichael Logistics.
Vendor: Lake State Mechanical.
Authorized by: Richard Spatafora.
Beatrice stared at it.
“Where did you get this?”
“Patrick dropped it when he came here Tuesday.”
Her pulse began to pound.
“Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t know what it meant.”
Beatrice did.
Lake State Mechanical was one of the vendors she had flagged that afternoon.
Richard.
O’Malley.
Tommy.
The same network.
Her phone rang.
Arthur.
She answered immediately.
“I found something.”
“So did I,” he said.
His voice was different.
Colder.
“What?”
“The sixty thousand was never your brother’s debt.”
Beatrice stood.
“Then whose was it?”
Arthur looked through the windows of his penthouse office at the Chicago skyline.
On his desk lay an old ledger his security chief had pulled from an O’Malley intermediary.
Beside Tommy Gallagher’s name was a handwritten note.
Not sixty thousand.
Leverage.
Arthur’s jaw tightened.
“It wasn’t money they wanted from Tommy,” he said.
“What did they want?”
Arthur looked at the next line.
May you like
B. Gallagher — Costello Accounting.
“They wanted access to you.”
