It’s been three days since I started working for Raffaele D’Amico.
Seventy-two hours of answering phones, organizing files, and pretending not to notice the things I definitely notice.
And there’s a lot to notice.
Just this morning, I’ve handled documents that would probably make a federal prosecutor’s entire career. Money transfers with more zeros than I bothered counting. Names pulled straight from headlines—politicians, businessmen, celebrities. Contracts tied to shell companies that don’t seem to exist anywhere outside of carefully formatted paperwork.
If anyone ever followed the trail in this office, it wouldn’t just be one case. It would be half the city.
And I’m the one sorting it into labeled folders.
I finish the latest batch—Martinez, offshore, Q3—and slide them into the cabinet. The drawer closes with a quiet click, like that somehow makes it all less real.
It doesn’t.
The question comes back, same as it does every night.What am I still doing here?
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, running through the same options I’ve already exhausted.
Leave. Disappear. Start over somewhere else.
Except “somewhere else” requires money I don’t have. Three hundred forty-three dollars—four hundred twelve now, technically, after my first partial paycheck. Not exactly enough to reinvent my life.
And even if it were, there’s the other problem.
I know too much.
That wasn’t a suggestion. It was a condition.
The alternative—unfortunate, explainable—is still on the table. Just delayed. Dependent on whether I continue being useful.
So, I stay useful.
Because I’d like to stay alive.
It’s not exactly a philosophy. More like a routine at this point—one I repeat while brushing my teeth, while filing documents, while trying not to think too hard about the way Raffaele looks at me.
Or the fact that I notice it.
“Mendez.”
I turn.
He’s standing in the doorway of his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. It’s the most casual I’ve seen him—and somehow that makes him more intimidating.
“I have a task for you.”
The briefcase is leather. Heavier than it should be for what’s supposedly just paperwork.
I don’t let myself think about that too much.
Raffaele’s instructions were clear—don’t open it, don’t ask questions. There wasn’t much room for interpretation.
The restaurant is only three blocks away. Close enough to walk, which would be fine if I weren’t hyper-aware of every step I take. The handle presses into my palm, my grip tightening the longer I carry it. My heels strike the pavement in a rhythm that feels like it’s drawing attention.
It isn’t.
No one’s looking at me. No one cares.
