Chapter 2 - The Audacity of the Office Supply
The scene inside Dante’s office was a masterclass in cinematic terror. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn against the gray Chicago rain, casting long, bruised shadows across the room. Sal Genovese was on his knees in the center of the Persian rug, weeping silently. Two massive guards flanked him like marble statues, and Dante stood by the window with his back turned, a suppressed 9mm pistol hanging loosely from his right hand as if it were an extension of his arm. The air was so thick with terror that breathing felt like inhaling crushed glass. Sal was blubbering apologies, begging for mercy, while Dante stared out at the indifferent skyline like a statue carved from judgment.
Emily ignored the drama entirely. She stepped carefully around Sal’s left knee to avoid scuffing the toe of her sensible low heels, marched straight up to the reclaimed walnut desk, and slapped a thick manila folder onto the wood.
"Mr. Marino," she said crisply, her voice cutting through the suffocating silence like a scalpel. "I need your signature."
Dante slowly turned around. His face was a mask of cold marble, his dark eyes dead and hollow as they locked onto hers. Most people withered, shrank, or begged for their lives beneath that gaze. Emily was merely annoyed that he was standing too far away from his pen.
"I am in the middle of a personnel issue, Emily," Dante said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that usually preceded an execution.
"I appreciate that," Emily replied briskly, pulling a heavy Montblanc pen from the holder and extending it toward him. "But the IRS is downstairs in two hours. If I don't have these depreciation forms signed, they're going to flag our dummy accounts, and you won't be able to make payroll on Friday. The men get very cranky when direct deposit doesn't clear."
Sal looked up, his face streaked with tears and mucus. "Emily, please! Tell him I didn't mean to—"
"Sal, please don't speak to me. We are not friends," Emily interrupted, tapping the bottom line of the form with a manicured fingernail. She let out a sharp sigh, a migraine throbbing behind her left eye. "Now sign the paper. You can shoot him afterward."
The guards stared at her as if she had grown a second head, their hands twitching toward their shoulder holsters, waiting for Dante to give the order to eliminate the most disrespectful employee in criminal history. Dante’s grip on the gun tightened. He took a slow, menacing step toward the desk, his eyes narrowing.
"You audited his accounts?" Dante asked in a dangerous whisper.
"Of course I did," Emily shot back, her tone dripping with exhaustion. "He used his mother's maiden name for the shell company. It was embarrassing. It took me twelve minutes to trace it. Now sign the paper. And please, do it in the warehouse."
Dante froze. "What?"
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"Just do it in the warehouse, please," Emily repeated, her tone shifting from commanding to profoundly weary. "We literally just had these rugs steam-cleaned on Tuesday. The cleaners charged double for biohazards after the last incident, and I spent forty minutes arguing on the phone about the upcharge for bloodstains. I am not doing it again. Frankly, Sal isn't worth the surcharge."
She wiggled the pen slightly, urging him forward. "Sign. Then shoot. In the warehouse."
