Chapter 2 - The Cracks In The Foundation
By eleven o'clock that morning, the executive boardroom at Rinaldi Maritime Holdings was on the verge of chaos.
Daario sat at the head of the long obsidian conference table, his temple throbbing with an intense, persistent headache.
"Where is the updated manifest for the Lake Michigan shipment?" Daario demanded, slamming his palm onto the polished glass.
His chief operations director, Marco, flinched, adjusting his glasses in obvious distress.
"Mr. Rinaldi, that manifest was always handled privately by Mrs. Rinaldi. She usually cross-references the port customs codes before the harbormaster arrives."
Daario froze, his pen hovering in mid-air.
"Elena doesn't work in operations," he snapped, his voice sharp and dismissive.
"No, sir, but she knows the harbormaster’s wife from the children's hospital charity board," Marco stammered.
"She always flagged the red tape before it became a federal audit. The harbormaster just impounded two of our container barges because the manifests lack certified maritime signatures."
Daario gritted his teeth, waving his hand to dismiss the trembling director.
"Call Vivien in here right now."
Two minutes later, Vivien Cross walked into the office, carrying a sleek leather folder and looking impeccably stylish in an olive-green pantsuit.
She smiled warmly, her confidence radiating as she sat down across from him. "Good morning, Daario. The press coverage from Saturday's gala is extraordinary. The Tribune called you the undisputed king of Chicago logistics."
"I don't care about the Tribune today, Vivien," Daario said curtly, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"The port authorities just halted our South Side docks. I need you to draft an emergency media clarification and contact the transport commissioners."
Vivien’s smile faltered slightly, her eyes widening in momentary panic.
"The transport commission? But... Mrs. Rinaldi always handles those personal luncheons. Commissioner Hayes won't take my calls; his office claims he only negotiates civic partnerships through Elena’s foundation."
Daario stared at his communications director, the sharp realization hitting him like cold water to the face.
Vivien was brilliant at writing press releases and framing corporate narratives under studio lights. But she did not know which judge took his coffee black, which police commander had an autistic son who loved toy trains, or which union boss needed his wife remembered on her birthday.
"Fix it anyway," Daario commanded, turning his chair toward the panoramic view of the Chicago skyline.
"That is what I pay you for."
As Vivien hurried out of the office, Daario glanced down at his desk drawer, where a small silver bottle of prescription antacids usually sat waiting for him.
May you like
The drawer was completely empty.
Elena had always replenished his medication every Monday morning without saying a single word. Today, the burning acid in his stomach was entirely his own to bear.
