“Carlo Conti. The assault video.”
A pause. I can hear him breathing, calculating the cost of refusal.
“That’s... that’s a lot of exposure. The video’s everywhere. Suppressing it would require?—”
“I’m not asking for a cost-benefit analysis, Harrison. I’m telling you what needs to happen.”
Another pause.
“You know, Harrison. There are certain photographs,” I continue, “from a bachelor party in Atlantic City. 2019, if I recall correctly. Lovely blonde. Looked barely legal, but I’m sure she was.” I pause. “Mostly sure.”
The line goes quiet.
“The video will be handled,” he says finally.
“I knew you’d see reason.”
I hang up before he can respond. The witnesses will develop sudden amnesia by end of day—I’ll have Lorenzo’s people handle that. The bartender’s lawyer is already negotiating a settlement generous enough to buy his silence and a new face.
Problem solved. Another fire extinguished.
This is what I do. Clean up messes made by men too stupid to avoid making them in the first place. The fixer. The cleaner. The legitimate face of illegitimate money.
D’Amico & Associates exists for one reason: so the feds can never trace anything back to Vincenzo Conti.
I close Carlo’s file and toss it aside. The motion sends a stack of papers sliding across my desk—depositions from the Martinez case, financial records, shipping manifests. Work that actually matters, if I could make myself focus on it.
A knock at my door. Light. Hesitant.
“Come in.”
The door opens, and she appears.
The new girl. Mendez.
She’s carrying a cup of coffee on a saucer, and her hands are trembling so badly the porcelain rattles with every step. The sound fills my office—a tiny, percussive reminder of her fear.
She looks like she didn’t sleep last night. Dark circles under her eyes and a pallor to her skin that suggests she spent the hours questioning every decision that led her to this moment.
Smart girl. She should be afraid.
She sets the coffee on my desk, careful to avoid the scattered papers. The cup clinks against the saucer one final time before she releases it.
“Your coffee, Mr. D’Amico.”
I lean back in my chair and study her now that I have the time.
Yesterday was chaos—all adrenaline and snap decisions. I’d caught her reflection in the window, heard her sharp intake of breath, and my first instinct was the same as always: eliminate the liability.
She’d heard enough to ruin everything. One phone call, and she’d be dead before sunset—filed away as a tragic accident.
Standard procedure. Regrettable, but necessary.
I’d already reached for my phone.
Then she looked at me.
The memory comes back without warning: her in the elevator, pressed against the back wall like distance alone might save her. The fear was there—obvious, physical—but it wasn’t all of it.
