Chapter 1 - The Most Dangerous Sound in Chicago
Dante Marino was laughing.
I had worked for him for eleven months, three weeks, and four days. In that time, I had seen men leave his office pale, bleeding, or suddenly interested in moving to Arizona.
I had never seen him laugh.
Neither had the two guards beside the door, judging by their expressions.
Sal Genevesi remained on his knees, staring at me as if I had performed an exorcism with a tax folder.
Dante lowered his hand.
The laughter faded. Something warmer remained around his eyes, and for one reckless second, I understood why his late wife might once have loved him.
Then he looked at the pistol in his hand.
“Take Sal downstairs,” he told his guards.
Sal started sobbing again.
“Alive,” Dante added. “Somewhere with chairs.”
The guards exchanged a glance.
“Do I need to explain chairs?”
“No, boss.”
They hauled Sal upright and disappeared.
Dante placed the pistol in a desk drawer, closed it, and looked at me.
“Now. Tell me about my taxes.”
I opened the folder.
And discovered that apparently my survival instinct had simply clocked out for lunch.
“These forms are wrong.”
His eyebrow moved.
“You interrupted me to sign forms that are wrong?”
“I interrupted you because payroll is about to become everyone’s problem. Then, walking upstairs, I found depreciation schedules for equipment your shipping company doesn’t own.”
“You prepared them.”
“I assembled what accounting sent me. I checked the asset register on the elevator.”
He watched me without blinking.
“Are you telling me not to sign?”
“Yes.”
A minute earlier, I had treated a threatened murder like an inconvenience. Now I was apparently drawing my ethical line at imaginary forklifts.
The realization made my stomach turn.
I looked toward the door.
“And for the record, that thing I said about the warehouse?”
“What about it?”
“I was being awful because I was scared. Please don’t shoot him anywhere.”
Dante leaned back.
Outside, rain moved down the windows in crooked silver lines.
“Sit down, Emily.”
“I have work.”
“That wasn’t a suggestion.”
I stayed standing.
Something changed in his face. He glanced at the chair, then back at me.
“Would you sit down?”
That was somehow more alarming.
I sat.
He called his attorney, Marianne Holt, and put her on speaker. Within ten minutes, the audit meeting had been postponed by agreement, accounting had received instructions to preserve every record, and I had permission to replace the false schedules with accurate ones.
No miracles. No clever loopholes.
Just an expensive woman sounding increasingly irritated.
When the call ended, Dante folded his hands.
“How did you find Sal?”
“He paid a consulting company with no employees, no website, and a mailing address belonging to a shuttered tanning salon.”
“And you recognized the name?”
“His mother sends Christmas cards to the office. Genevesi men apparently believe women’s maiden names are classified intelligence.”
His mouth twitched.
I pointed at him.
“Don’t do that.”
“What?”
“Whatever this is. People are already going to blame me.”
“For what?”
“Your sudden personality development.”
This time, he smiled.
Briefly.
Deliberately.
My pulse behaved in a deeply unprofessional manner.
Then he opened the file I had brought about Sal’s missing money.
Halfway through the transaction list, his expression emptied.
“Where did this come from?”
He tapped a payment to a company called Lakefront Vehicle Services.
“Sal’s consulting account. There are six payments.”
“When?”
“Over the past eight months.”
Dante stood so abruptly that I nearly did too.
He crossed to the window, his back rigid.
“Mr. Marino?”
“Clara’s car was serviced by that company.”
His wife’s name entered the room like another person.
I knew the outline. A bomb. A funeral. Nine years of silence afterward.
“Companies have repeat customers,” I said carefully.
“That company closed nine years ago.”
I looked at the paper again.
The payments were recent. The account was active.
Behind me, the office door opened.
Nico Russo, Dante’s head of security, stepped inside carrying a small evidence envelope.
“We searched Sal’s phone,” he said.
His eyes flicked toward me.
Dante extended his hand.
Nico hesitated before giving him the envelope.
Inside was a photograph.
Me, outside my brother’s care facility the previous Sunday.
Leo stood beside me in his green sweater, smiling at something I could no longer remember saying.
Across the bottom, someone had written four words.
SHE KNOWS TOO MUCH.
The room seemed to tilt.
Dante looked from the photograph to my face.
May you like
For the first time since I had met him, the fear in his eyes was unmistakable.
And it wasn’t for himself.
