Chapter 4 - Entering the Lion’s Den
Twenty-four hours later, Maya walked through the grand marble doors of Russo Global Enterprises, not in a faded polyester uniform, but in a tailored charcoal pantsuit that commanded immediate attention. The transformation was absolute. With her hair swept back into a sleek chignon and her shoulders squared with unyielding confidence, she looked less like a struggling waitress and more like a corporate shark ready to devour the boardroom.
Marco, the scarred enforcer, met her in the private lobby and escorted her to the penthouse office on the forty-fifth floor. The room was a monument to power—floor-to-ceiling glass windows overlooking the sprawling harbor, dark mahogany furniture, and shelves lined with rare books and vintage liquor bottles.
Dominic stood by the window, swirling amber whiskey in a crystal glass. When the door clicked shut behind Marco, Dominic turned, and for a fleeting second, his cold expression softened as he took in her appearance.
“The suit suits you,” Dominic remarked, walking slowly toward his desk. “Though I admit, part of me misses the apron.”
“Save the charm, Mr. Russo,” Maya replied crisply, walking over to the conference table where a stack of international shipping manifests and Italian trade agreements lay waiting. “I am here to work, not to entertain your nostalgia.”
“Good,” Dominic smirked, sitting down opposite her. “Because we have a serious problem. The shipment coming out of Genoa next Tuesday is being intercepted by a rival faction led by Salvatore Moretti. Moretti thinks he can muscle in on our maritime routes because he believes our local leadership is distracted.”
Maya leaned over the papers, her sharp eyes scanning the complex logistics network in seconds. Years of managing tight restaurant budgets and untangling financial chaos had trained her brain to spot discrepancies and structural weaknesses instantly.
“Moretti isn't attacking your logistics,” Maya said after a moment of intense concentration, her finger tapping against a specific customs manifest. “He’s using a shell company in Milan to buy up your primary warehouse debt. Look at the routing codes on these tax filings. He’s planning a legal hostile takeover of your distribution hubs, not a physical raid.”
Dominic stared at her, genuine astonishment flickering across his face. His top financial advisors and lawyers had spent three weeks trying to trace those leaked manifests, and a former waitress had diagnosed the entire syndicate threat in less than five minutes.
“You’re terrifying,” Dominic murmured, a low rumble of amusement in his chest.
“I’m observant,” Maya corrected, looking up to meet his gaze. “And if we want to beat Moretti at his own game, we don't fight him in the streets. We freeze his assets in Naples by activating the old family maritime clauses under the Spaccanapoli trade agreements.”
May you like
Dominic’s eyes widened slightly. “That clause requires a direct descendant or an authorized proxy fluent in the regional mercantile dialect to sign in person before the port magistrate in Italy.”
Maya smiled—a cold, brilliant smile that mirrored his own. “Good thing I learned how to bargain in Spaccanapoli before I learned long division. When do we fly to Italy?”
