Chapter 1 - The Paper Trail of Blood Money
The radiator in my basement workspace groaned like an overworked engine, spitting dry heat across my desk. I pressed my palms flat against the chipped laminate surface and took a steady breath, trying to ignore the pulsing ache radiating from my left ankle. Every movement sent a sharp, electric throb up my calf, reminding me of Tony Brandt’s cruel grin on the concrete stairs the night before. I had survived his visits for three years, scraping together every loose dollar from odd catering jobs, retail shifts, and freelance bookkeeping. Now, staring at the double-entry sheets of Moretti Hospitality, my hands were finally steady enough to do what I did best: hunt down the numbers that didn’t want to be found.
Lakeshore Provisions was an anomaly on paper. In hospitality management, food suppliers rarely invoiced in clean, flat thousands. Fresh produce, aged meats, and imported cheeses fluctuated with weekly market indices, yet Lakeshore billed exactly fourteen thousand dollars every second Tuesday. I pulled up the corresponding receiving docks logs from the rooftop grill, the waterfront bistro, and the downtown banquet hall. Just as I suspected, the signatures on the delivery slips were rushed, looping scribbles that belonged to nobody on the kitchen payroll. More damning still, the timestamps matched hours when the loading docks were bolted shut for nightly cleanings.
""Looking for a ghost, Miss Hale?""
The voice made me jump, jarring my injured foot against the steel desk frame. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper to keep from crying out. Dante Moretti stood in the narrow doorway of my office, filling the frame with effortless presence. His dark charcoal suit was immaculate, completely out of place amid the stacks of yellowing invoices and dust motes. In his right hand, he carried a plain brown paper bag from the bakery two blocks over.
""I prefer to call it sloppy accounting, Mr. Moretti,"" I answered smoothly, closing the master spreadsheet.
He didn't take the single guest chair. Instead, he stepped closer, setting the warm bag on the edge of my desk. The scent of roasted espresso and sweet almond pastry cut through the smell of dry ink. His sharp eyes flicked down toward my legs tucked securely behind the modesty panel, then drifted back up to my face.
""A ghost usually takes something with it,"" Dante remarked quietly, his tone devoid of accusation. ""What did you catch them taking?""
""Fifty-six thousand dollars a month for deliveries that never arrived,"" I said, handing him the printed cross-reference sheet. ""The checks are routed through a private deposit box over on Eighth Avenue. The entity claims to supply prime veal and poultry, but the restaurant walk-ins haven't seen an extra crate of meat since mid-spring.""
Dante scanned the sheet without blinking. A subtle, cold tension settled in his jawline, the only visible sign of anger from a man rumored to control the entire district’s private commerce. ""Tony Brandt runs the logistics warehouse on Eighth Avenue,"" he murmured, his thumb grazing the bottom corner of the printout.
My breath caught directly in my throat. I lowered my eyes, praying that the basement’s dim overhead bulb would hide the sudden drain of color from my face. Of all the thousands of LLCs registered in the state, the man bleeding me dry and the man bleeding Dante Moretti were the exact same predator. If Dante realized I had a personal history with the name on that paper, my newly minted job would vanish before the ink on my contract dried.
""Do you know the name?"" Dante asked, his gaze pinning me with uncomfortable precision.
""I only know what your checks say, Mr. Moretti,"" I lied, keeping my voice even and professional. ""I follow the balance sheets. The personalities aren't my department.""
Dante folded the paper neatly, sliding it into his breast pocket. ""Smart answer. Keep digging into the previous eighteen months. But eat the pastry first, Miss Hale. You look like a single strong breeze could knock you off your feet.""
May you like
He turned and walked away, his heavy footsteps echoing up the concrete corridor toward the busy street level. I waited until the heavy fire door clicked shut upstairs before leaning over, burying my face in my trembling hands. Tony Brandt had his claws embedded inside Moretti Hospitality, and if Dante discovered that Brandt had been shaking down his new bookkeeper for an imaginary family debt, there would be nowhere left for me to run.
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