Chapter 1
Nine years had passed since anyone heard Dante Marino laugh. Then I walked into what looked like an execution, handed Chicago’s most feared Mafia boss a stack of paperwork, and said, “If you’re going to shoot him, please don’t do it on the rug.”
My name is Emily Davis. I was thirty-one, exhausted, permanently over-caffeinated, and apparently missing the part of my brain responsible for self-preservation.
I worked as Dante Marino’s personal secretary because he paid me twelve thousand dollars a month.
Eight thousand went straight to the private residential facility caring for my younger brother.
So yes, I needed that job.
Dante was thirty-eight and controlled an empire disguised behind shipping companies, restaurants, warehouses, gambling operations, and enough shell corporations to give any accountant nightmares.
Nine years earlier, a car bomb meant for him killed his wife, Clara.
People said Dante buried whatever humanity he had left beside her.
He never smiled.
Never joked.
Never raised his voice.
That was what terrified everyone.
Most secretaries lasted three weeks.
I lasted because fear required energy, and I had none left.
One rainy Thursday, Dante summoned Tommy, one of his enforcers, into his office.
Tommy stopped beside my desk, pale.
“If I don’t come back out…”
“I’ll cancel your dentist appointment Tuesday,” I said, still staring at my spreadsheet. “And I’ll mail your final check to your mother.”
He stared at me.
Three minutes later, something heavy crashed inside Dante’s office.
I quietly moved my coffee farther from the edge of my desk.
Then I noticed something worse.
Three million dollars was missing from a South Side operation.
And whoever stole it was an idiot.
Salvatore Genovese, one of Dante’s oldest captains, had routed the money through a shell company using his own mother’s maiden name.
At 11:45, I grabbed a folder Dante needed signed before federal auditors arrived and walked straight into his office.
I stopped.
Sal was on his knees.
Two guards stood behind him.
Dante faced the rain-streaked windows, a suppressed pistol hanging loosely from his hand.
“Mr. Marino,” I said. “I need your signature.”
His head turned slowly.
“I am handling a personnel issue.”
“The IRS arrives in two hours. If these forms aren’t signed, payroll gets frozen.”
Sal looked at me desperately.
“Emily, please tell him…”
“Sal, we are not friends.”
One guard actually flinched.
Dante stepped toward me, gun still in his hand.
“Leave.”
“I will after you sign.”
I held out his Montblanc.
“And I already traced Sal’s theft. He used his mother’s maiden name. It took twelve minutes. Honestly, that’s insulting.”
The room went completely silent.
Then I looked down.
Sal was kneeling on Dante’s Persian rug.
I sighed.
“Actually, one more thing.”
Dante’s eyes hardened. “What?”
“Please shoot him at the warehouse.”
Nobody moved.
“We had these rugs professionally cleaned Tuesday,” I explained. “They charge double for blood. I spent forty minutes arguing about the biohazard fee last month, and frankly, Sal is not worth the surcharge.”
Dante stared at me.
One second.
Five.
Ten.
Then his mouth twitched.
His chest jerked once.
A strange, broken sound escaped his throat.
Both guards reached toward their weapons.
Sal stopped crying.
And I suddenly realized what I was hearing.
May you like
Dante Marino, the man who hadn’t laughed since his wife died nine years ago, was laughing.
And he was getting louder.
