Chapter 1 - The Biohazard Surcharge
Nine years had passed since anyone heard Dante Marino laugh, and in his world, silence was more terrifying than gunfire. Men lowered their voices when he entered, avoided jokes at all costs, and knew better than to surprise him—yet somehow, I walked into an execution with paperwork in my hand and told Chicago’s most feared Mafia boss not to ruin a freshly cleaned rug.
My name is Emily Davis, and at thirty-one, exhaustion had destroyed whatever instinct for self-preservation I was supposed to have. I worked as Dante Marino’s personal secretary because his company paid me twelve thousand dollars a month, and eight thousand of that went directly toward the private residential facility caring for my younger brother, Leo.
Dante was thirty-eight and controlled an empire hidden behind legitimate shipping companies, restaurants, gambling operations, warehouses, and enough shell corporations to make an accountant cry. Nine years earlier, a car bomb meant for him killed his wife, Clara, and according to everyone around him, whatever humanity Dante had possessed was buried with her.
He never smiled. He never joked. He never raised his voice. That frightened people more than shouting ever could.
Most secretaries lasted three weeks. I lasted because fear required energy, and between my brother’s medical bills, terrible coffee, and twelve-hour workdays, I didn’t have any left.
One rainy Thursday, Dante summoned Tommy, one of his enforcers, into his office.
“If I don’t come back out—” Tommy began nervously, pausing at my desk.
“I’ll cancel your dentist appointment Tuesday,” I told him without looking away from my spreadsheet. “And I’ll mail your final check to your mother.”
His face went blank, and he swallowed hard before pushing through the heavy double doors.
Three minutes later, something heavy crashed inside Dante’s office. I didn't flinch. I simply moved my coffee farther from the edge of my desk to protect my documents.
Then my spreadsheet showed me something far worse than a broken lamp: three million dollars missing from a South Side operation. The thief had been embarrassingly careless. Salvatore Genovese, one of Dante’s oldest captains, had routed the money through a shell company using his own mother’s maiden name.
At 11:45, I grabbed a folder Dante needed to sign before federal auditors arrived downstairs and walked straight into his office without knocking.
Sal was on his knees. Two guards stood behind him, hands hovering near their holsters. Dante faced the rain-covered windows with a suppressed pistol hanging loosely from his right hand.
Every person in that room looked terrified. Except me.
“Mr. Marino,” I said, placing the folder on his mahogany desk. “I need your signature.”
Dante slowly turned. His dark eyes were cold enough to freeze blood. “I am handling a personnel issue, Emily.”
“The IRS arrives in two hours. If these forms aren’t signed, payroll gets frozen, and your employees become extremely unpleasant when direct deposit fails.”
Sal looked up at me desperately, tears welling in his bloodshot eyes. “Emily, please tell him—I didn't mean to—”
“Sal, we are not friends,” I interrupted dryly. “And you owe forty dollars for last week’s lunch pool.”
The guards stared at me like I had volunteered to be thrown out the penthouse window.
Dante’s eyes narrowed, his grip tightening on the pistol. “Leave.”
“I will after you sign.” I extended his Montblanc pen toward him. “I already traced Sal’s theft. He used his mother’s maiden name, Rossi. It took twelve minutes. Honestly, that’s insulting to my intelligence.”
Silence swallowed the room. Dante stepped toward me, the gun still in his hand, his posture radiating lethal tension.
Then I noticed the Persian rug beneath Sal’s trembling knees and sighed.
“Actually, one more thing.”
Dante stopped, his eyebrow twitching slightly. “What?”
“Please shoot him at the warehouse.”
Every face in the room turned toward me in utter disbelief.
“We had these rugs professionally cleaned Tuesday,” I continued, crossing my arms. “They charge double for blood. I spent forty minutes arguing about the biohazard fee last month, and frankly, Sal is not worth the surcharge.”
For ten unbearable seconds, Dante simply stared at me.
Then something happened to his face. His mouth twitched. His broad chest moved once. A strange, broken sound escaped his throat.
May you like
The guards reached toward their weapons in surprise. Sal stopped crying.
And I suddenly realized that the sound coming from Dante Marino—the man who had not laughed since his wife died nine years ago—was getting louder, turning into a low, rumblesome laugh that echoed off the cold glass windows.
