Page 9 of The Devils in the Details

“Eight, if you count computer code,” I said. “Which you should, because it’s the only one that pays my rent.”

“Fluently?”

“I dream in three of them. The dreams are usually about being chased by something with too many teeth, but the grammar is impeccable.”

He didn’t smile. His expression didn’t change at all, which was its own kind of impressive. Most people at least twitched at sarcasm—it was a biological response, like flinching at sudden noises.

Ari Romano sat perfectly still, one hand resting on the desk, the other holding a pen he hadn’t used yet, and watched me with those black eyes like he was running some internal calculation whose variables I wasn’t privy to.

I caught myself watching his hands. Large, rough, the kind of hands that had done actual work—knuckles scarred, a callus across the right palm that spoke to years of gripping something that fought back.

The pen between his fingers was still. Absolutely still. Not a tremor, not a fidget.

I redirected my attention to his face. His eyes were already there, waiting.

“You have a photographic memory,” he said.

Not a question.

“I have a brain that remembers things it shouldn’t and forgets things it should, which is basically the same thing with worse public relations.”

“Prove it.”

I opened my laptop. The screen lit up blue, casting his face in that glow that made everyone look like they were planning something sinister, which in his case was probably accurate.

I pulled up the two shell corporations on a split screen—Malta on the left, Cyprus on the right, the transaction histories scrolling in neat columns of dates and amounts.

“Thirty million dollars,” I said. “Give or take. Moved out of Romano accounts over the last eighteen months, mostly in the three months before your father’s death. Sitting in these two shells right now, doing absolutely nothing productive except accruing the kind of interest that makes Swiss bankers feel warm inside.”

His expression didn’t change, but something in the air between us shifted. The temperature, maybe. Or the pressure.

I typed. Three commands, a routing sequence I’d written while eating caramel at three in the morning, and the money began moving. Thirty million dollars, walking back across international borders like it had remembered an appointment, flowing into the accounts I’d identified as the original sources. The transfer took twelve seconds. The confirmation notifications began populating the screen before I’d finished closing the first window.

“Done,” I said. “Oh, and I may have bent a few regulatory rules to make that happen. Nothing fatal. Just the kind of creative interpretation that would make a compliance officer develop an ulcer and/or a drinking problem.”

He set his coffee down. The cup made a soft sound against the wood. He looked at the screen. Looked at me. Looked back at the screen.

The silence lasted long enough that I could have recited the first twenty digits of pi in three languages, which I did not do because even I have limits.

“You’re hired,” he said finally. “Probationary. Two weeks. You handle the books, the calls, the scheduling. You report directly to me. You speak to no one about family business without my authorization.” He leaned forward slightly. The movement was small, controlled, and carried the gravity of a glacier deciding to inch forward. “Betray this family, and bending regulatory rules will be the least of your concerns. Understood?”

Most people, when confronted with a statement like that delivered in a voice like his, would nod. Would look appropriately chastened. Would maybe swallow and say “yes, sir” in a tone that suggested they were reconsidering their life choices.

I reached into my laptop bag. Past the individually wrapped caramels. Past the switchblade I kept nestled against the inner lining where airport security had never once thought to look. Pulled out a folded document and set it on the desk between us.

“Non-disclosure agreement,” I said. “Pre-drafted. Standard template with Romano-specific amendments. I’ve already signed it.” I tapped my signature at the bottom. “You should have every employee sign one. Including the guys with guns.” I widened my eyes. “Especially the guys with guns.”

He looked at the document. Looked at me. The patience in his expression had acquired a quality I couldn’t quite name. He looked like a man who had expected many things from this interview and “legal advice from the applicant” had not been on the list.

“We’re the mafia,” he said. The words were delivered flat, with the weary precision of someone stating an obvious fact to a child who had missed several key lessons.

“So?”

He blinked. It was an excellent blink—slow, deliberate, the kind of blink that contained an entire internal monologue compressed into the time it took his eyelids to close and open. I made a mental note of it.

Excellent blinks were rare and worth cataloging.

“Killing a man removes one problem,” I said, typing as I talked because my hands did their best thinking when they were moving. “Dragging him through civil and criminal channels makes the problem hereditary. Debts attach to families. Judgments outlive people. Cement shoes end one conversation. A well-constructed lawsuit starts fifty.” I looked up. “Also, paperwork is boring and I’d rather not do it twice.”