Chapter 4 - Blood on the Riverfront
By Monday morning, the executive health insurance rider had already been processed. A formal confirmation letter from St. Jude’s arrived in my inbox at 7:30 AM, confirming that Leo’s therapy expansion was fully covered under the Marino Enterprise corporate policy.
When Dante arrived at eight o'clock, wearing a charcoal three-piece suit and carrying his usual cold demeanor, I set a hot cup of black coffee on his desk alongside his morning brief.
"Thank you," I said quietly, remaining standing near his desk. "For the insurance."
Dante didn't look up from the folder I had prepared. "It's an operational expense, Emily. An exhausted secretary makes mistakes on tax forms. I am protecting my investment."
"Right," I replied, a small smile tugging at the corner of my lips despite myself. "An investment."
"Alderman Vance is thirty minutes late," Dante noted, looking at his gold wristwatch.
"Alderman Vance called ten minutes ago," I corrected smoothly. "He claimed his car had flat tire trouble on the I-90. In reality, his wife discovered his apartment in Gold Coast registered to a twenty-four-year-old dancer."
Dante paused, looking up at me. "How do you know that?"
"I manage your slush funds, Mr. Marino. I pay the rent on the Gold Coast apartment," I said matter-of-factly. "He will arrive in ten minutes, extremely flustered, and he will sign the riverfront zoning permit without asking for the additional fifty thousand dollar bribe he hinted at last week."
Dante leaned back in his leather chair, studying me with an unreadable look. "You are terrifying, Emily Davis."
"I am efficient, Mr. Marino."
Before he could answer, his private satellite phone rang on the desk. This was the line that only five people in the country had access to—the line reserved for high-level syndicate emergencies.
Dante picked it up instantly. "Marino."
I watched his face transform in real-time. The quiet, almost relaxed posture melted away instantly. His dark eyebrows pulled together, his jaw hardened like stone, and his grey eyes turned into slate.
"Where?" Dante asked, his voice dropping an octave into a cold, lethal whisper. "Who did it?"
He listened for thirty seconds, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the receiver.
"Secure the perimeter. I am on my way," Dante said, slamming the phone down. He stood up abruptly, pulling a heavy black overcoat from the coat rack and reaching into his desk drawer for a shoulder holster.
"What happened?" I asked, dropping my secretarial composure.
"The Moretti family," Dante said coldly, strapping the holster over his vest and sliding a high-caliber pistol into place. "They just hit our riverfront construction site. Three of my workers are dead. My cousin Marco is critically wounded."
The air in the room instantly grew heavy, choked with the sudden threat of an all-out Mafia war. The Morettis were the rival family controlling the North Side—a ruthless crew led by Lorenzo Moretti, a man who had been fighting Dante's family for two decades.
"Stay here," Dante commanded, sweeping past my desk. "Lock the floor elevators. Do not leave this building until I call you."
"Mr. Marino—"
"That is an order, Emily!" he snapped, turning back to glare at me with an intensity that would have forced a hardened mobster to his knees.
I didn't flinch. "Take Tommy with you. The rear entrance of the site has an unmonitored alleyway near the canal. If Moretti’s men are still there, that’s where they’ll set up their sniper positions."
Dante stared at me, stunned for a fraction of a second by my tactical awareness.
"How do you know that?" he demanded.
"I reviewed the architectural blueprints for the riverfront project three weeks ago when we applied for the municipal permits," I said plainly. "Don't get shot, Mr. Marino. I don't want to deal with the probate court paperwork."
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Dante stared at me, then a dark, fierce grin touched his lips—a terrifyingly handsome expression that made my pulse jump for an entirely different reason.
"I'll keep my blood off the blueprints," Dante promised, turning and striding out toward the private stairs.
