Chapter 6 - The First Strike
By Friday afternoon, I had learned more about the inner workings of Blackwell Industries than most people learned in a lifetime.
Caleb wasn't just a real-estate developer; he controlled the primary logistics hubs along the Connecticut coastline, warehouses in Newark, and commercial shipping lanes running up into Canada. The "family business" was a sprawling corporate empire wrapped around a syndicate core.
And my desk was right outside his office doors.
“Miss Reyes,” Marcus said, popping his head into my anteroom as I hammered away at a spreadsheet on my new dual-monitor setup. “You’ve got a visitor in the lobby. Refuses to leave without seeing the boss.”
I frowned, not looking up from my screen. “Is it on Mr. Blackwell’s calendar?”
“Not unless ‘getting dragged out by security’ is a scheduled event,” Marcus grinned. “It’s Vincent Rossi. The capo from the Bridgeport faction.”
I stopped typing. I had read the dossiers Caleb had given me to study. Vincent Rossi was a dangerous, volatile middle-manager in the syndicate—older, resentful of Caleb’s young leadership, and constantly pushing boundaries to see what he could get away with.
“Mr. Blackwell is in a conference call with the city zoning board,” I said, standing up and smoothing my navy blazer. “Tell Mr. Rossi to make an appointment for next Tuesday.”
“I tried telling him that,” Marcus sighed, hitching up his holster. “He told me to go back to guarding doors and pushed past me into the private elevator.”
My stomach dropped, but my hotel-management training kicked in. A good manager handles crises before they reach the executive suite.
“Where is he now?”
“Heading down the third-floor corridor.”
I didn't wait for Marcus. I strode out of the anteroom, my heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor of the third-floor hallway.
Ten yards ahead of me, a heavy-set man in a loud houndstooth suit with thinning gray hair was striding purposefully toward the double doors of Caleb’s office. Two intimidating goons flanked him.
“Mr. Rossi!” I called out, my voice ringing clear and authoritative down the hall.
Vincent Rossi stopped, turning around with a look of supreme annoyance. He looked me up and down, taking in my height, my tailored suit, and my youth with immediate disdain.
“Who the hell are you?” Rossi sneered. “Where’s Vance? Where’s the guy who usually stands out here?”
“Mr. Vance is no longer with the organization,” I said, stepping directly into his path, forcing him to halt. “And I am Marisol Reyes, Mr. Blackwell’s chief of staff. You cannot enter his office without an appointment.”
Rossi let out a harsh, barking laugh, turning to his goons. “Did you hear that? The boss hired a nanny. Or a secretary. Hey, sweetheart, step aside. I got business with Caleb, and it ain't something a girl in a skirt needs to hear.”
He tried to step around me.
Without thinking, I reached out and planted my palm firmly against his chest, stopping his forward momentum cold.
Rossi froze. His goons instantly reached inside their jackets, their hands flashing toward their shoulder holsters.
“Don't,” I said, my voice dropping into an icy, professional register I usually reserved unruly hotel guests who tried to trash the penthouse suite. “If you draw a weapon in this hallway, Mr. Blackwell’s security team will put you in the ground before you reach the elevator. And as for you, Mr. Rossi—if you take one more step toward those doors without an appointment, I will personally ensure your shipping containers in Bridgeport are seized for municipal code violations by five o'clock this afternoon.”
Rossi stared at me, his face turning a mottled shade of purple. “You little—do you know who I am? I’ve been with the Blackwell family since Caleb was in diapers! You think some pink-slip-holding nobody is going to tell me—?”
The heavy double doors behind me swung open with a slow, ominous creak.
Caleb stood in the doorway.
He was holding his phone in one hand, his shirtsleeves rolled up, his dark eyes fixed on the scene unfolding in his hallway. The silence that fell over the corridor was absolute.
“Is there a problem, Marisol?” Caleb asked softly.
“No problem, Mr. Blackwell,” I said, keeping my hand planted firmly against Rossi’s chest as I turned my head slightly to look back at my boss. “Mr. Rossi was just leaving. He realized he forgot his calendar at home.”
Rossi glared at me, his chest heaving under my hand. He looked at Caleb, expecting his boss to override the new hire, put her in her place, and let him through.
Caleb looked at Rossi. Then he looked at me.
A slow, terrifyingly pleased smile spread across Caleb’s face.
“She’s right, Vincent,” Caleb said, his voice dropping into that lethal register that made the hair on my arms stand up. “My chief of staff handles my schedule. If she says you don't have an appointment, you don't exist.”
Rossi swallowed hard, stepping back out of my personal space. He adjusted his lapel, glaring daggers at me. “You’ll regret this, sweetheart.”
“I never regret anything, Mr. Rossi,” I replied coolly. “Have a nice trip down in the elevator.”
As Rossi and his thugs stomped away down the hall, defeated and fuming, Caleb leaned against the doorframe, watching me with undisguised fascination.
“Remind me never to get on your bad side, Marisol,” Caleb murmured, stepping closer.
May you like
“You already did, Mr. Blackwell,” I shot back, turning back to my desk. “You made me your chief of staff.”
Caleb laughed—a deep, rich sound that echoed down the quiet hallway—and for the first time since I had walked into Blackwell House, I felt like I might actually survive.
