Nine years had passed since anyone heard Dante Marino laugh, and in his world, silence was more terrifying than gunfire.

The sound of Dante Marino laughing was so foreign that for a brief moment, no one in the room moved. The two enforcers exchange bewildered glances, their hands frozen near their waistbands. Sal Genovese remained on his knees, his jaw slack, staring up at his Don as if Dante had suddenly started speaking in an ancient, dead tongue.

Dante’s laughter wasn't warm or merry. It was low, raspy, and rusty, like gears grinding together after nearly a decade of silence. He leaned back against the edge of his mahogany desk, lowering the suppressed pistol, his shoulders shaking slightly.

"A biohazard fee," Dante rasped, wiping a thumb across his eye. "You're concerned about the cleaning bill."

"I am concerned about the budget, Mr. Marino," I replied flatly, holding the Montblanc pen out a second time. "Which is currently three million dollars light thanks to Captain Genovese's clumsy accounting. Please sign line four."

Dante looked at me, his sharp grey eyes searching my face. For the first time in the eighteen months I had worked for him, he wasn't looking through me like a piece of office furniture. He took the pen, uncapped it, and signed the IRS authorization forms without reading them.

"Tommy," Dante said, his tone abruptly dropping back into icy authority, though the faint shadow of amusement lingered at the corner of his mouth. "Take Sal to warehouse four on the docks. Emily says he isn't worth the rug."

"Mr. Marino! Please! I have a family!" Sal wailed as the two guards grabbed him under the arms and hauled him toward the private elevator.

"You should have thought about your family before using your mother's maiden name," I added as the elevator doors slid shut, cutting off Sal's frantic pleas.

The double doors closed, leaving only the two of us in the massive, quiet office. The rain continued to drum relentlessly against the glass wall overlooking the Chicago skyline.

Dante tossed the pen onto his desk and walked over to the wet bar. He poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a heavy crystal glass, but he didn't drink. He stood holding the glass, staring out at the storm.

"Nine years," Dante said softly, his back to me. "My lieutenants think I am a monster, Emily. My enemies think I am a ghost. And you treat me like a minor inconvenience on a Thursday afternoon."

"You pay me twelve thousand dollars a month, Mr. Marino," I said, picking up the signed folder and checking the signature. "In exchange, I manage your schedule, deal with government agencies, and prevent unnecessary expenditure. Fear is not in my job description."

Dante turned around, leaning his hip against the dark wood bar. "Why do you need twelve thousand dollars a month? You wear the same two grey suits, you drive a ten-year-old Honda, and you live in a studio apartment in Pilsen."

I felt a cold spike of caution run down my spine. In Dante's world, personal information was leverage. I kept my personal life strictly separated from the blood-soaked empire he ran.

"My personal finances are not company business," I said, tucking the folder under my arm.

"Everything in this building is my business," Dante countered, stepping forward. His heavy footfalls made no sound on the freshly cleaned Persian rug. He stopped two feet away from me. He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that filled out his bespoke Italian suits, and a sharp jawline darkened by dark stubble. "You don't fear me because you're already carrying a burden heavier than anything I can threaten you with. What is it?"

I met his gaze dead-on. "The federal auditors are in the lobby, Mr. Marino. If I am not downstairs to escort them to the conference room in three minutes, they will freeze our merchant accounts."

Dante stared at me for three long seconds. Then, slowly, he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

"Go," he said. "But this conversation isn't over."

I turned on my heel and walked out of the office, my heels clicking sharply on the polished marble floor. My heart was pounding, not from the gun or the Mafia boss, but from the terrifying realization that Dante Marino was starting to pay attention to me.

Downstairs in the glass-and-steel lobby, three IRS agents in rumpled suits were pacing near the security turnstiles. I put on my professional, ice-cold secretary smile and stepped out of the elevator.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," I said smoothly, gesturing toward the private conference wing. "Welcome to Marino Logistics. I have all the quarterly ledgers prepared for your review."

As I led the agents down the hallway, my cell phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out and glanced at the screen. It was a text from St. Jude’s Residential Care Facility.

Ms. Davis: Leo’s physical therapy regimen needs to be expanded next month. Out-of-pocket costs will increase by $1,800. Please contact billing.

I closed my eyes briefly, swallowing the lump in my throat. Eight thousand a month was already pushing me to the absolute limit. An extra eighteen hundred meant I wouldn't be able to pay my own rent.