“The file you were delivering.” He holds out his hand. “I’ll take it.”
I look down. The manila folder is still in my grip, crumpled now from how hard I’ve been clutching it.
I hand it over.
He glances at the folder, then tosses it onto a nearby table. “Castellano can wait. You have work to do.”
I hesitate. “What about Margaret? She’s my supervisor.”
“Fire her if you want.”
And just like that, he’s gone—disappearing into his office, leaving me alone in the hallway of what is apparently my new life.
I just stand there, options lining up faster than I can process them—none of which involve staying.
I sit down anyway.
There’s a computer, a phone, a stack of papers that need filing. Normal office things. Like I’m a normal assistant with a normal job.
I know one thing for certain: This is either the worst decision I’ve ever made, or the only one that might keep me alive long enough to make another.
I guess I’ll find out which.
2
RAFFAELE
The legal briefs blur in front of me.
I’ve been staring at the same paragraph for ten minutes. Something about offshore accounts and shell corporations—the usual financial origami that keeps federal investigators chasing their own tails. Normally, this is the part of the job I enjoy. Finding the cracks in the system. Exploiting them before anyone realizes they exist.
Today, I can’t focus.
I push back from my desk and check my watch. 9:28 AM. The city sprawls beyond my window, glass and concrete and millions of people going about their meaningless little lives. From up here, they look like ants. Busy. Purposeless. Easily crushed.
A siren wails somewhere far below. Ambulance, probably. Someone’s emergency. Someone’s worst day.
I turn back to the file.
Carlo Conti. Nico’s nephew. Twenty-three years old, IQ barely scraping double digits, and somehow managed to get himself caught on camera assaulting a bartender who cut him off. The video’s already circulating online. By noon, it’ll be on every local news station.
I flip through the preliminary report. Witnesses. Security footage. The bartender’s medical records—broken orbital bone, shattered cheekbone, possible permanent vision damage.
Carlo didn’t just hit him. He beat him half to death while his friends filmed it, laughing.
Fucking idiot.
The Conti organization has survived for three generations because it knows how to stay invisible. We don’t make headlines. We don’t leave evidence. We certainly don’t assault civilians on camera for refusing to serve us another vodka tonic.
But Carlo is family. And family gets protected.
No matter how much they deserve to rot.
I reach for my phone, scroll through contacts until I find the name I’m looking for. Judge Harrison. He owes me a favor—actually, he owes me about seven, accumulated over a decade of making his gambling debts disappear.
The phone rings twice before he picks up.
“Raffaele.” His voice is cautious. It always is when I call. “What can I do for you?”
