Chapter 9 - The Invitation
By the end of my second month as chief of staff, the syndicate was bleeding beneath the surface, and I was the one holding the bandages.
Vincent Rossi had grown increasingly erratic. He was missing revenue targets, skipping compliance meetings, and openly grumbling to the other capos that Caleb was "going soft" because he was spending too much time playing corporate executive at the estate.
Caleb remained outwardly calm, continuing to work from his third-floor office while using me as his primary conduit to the legitimate business world—signing real-estate deals, reviewing municipal permits, and managing his vast charitable donations across Connecticut.
It was a brilliant camouflage. To the federal investigators and the local police, Caleb Blackwell was a wealthy, legitimate philanthropist and real-estate mogul. Only those inside the fortress knew the truth.
“Mr. Blackwell,” I announced one Tuesday morning, walking into his office with a stack of invitations. “The annual Greenwich Charity Gala is next Friday. The mayor’s office has requested your presence as the guest of honor, given your recent donation to the children’s hospital.”
Caleb didn't look up from his laptop. “Decline it.”
“I can’t decline it,” I said firmly, dropping the envelopes onto his desk. “Not unless you want the local press running articles about how the Blackwell Foundation is pulling back from community outreach. It’s a political necessity.”
Caleb sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he finally looked up at me. He had been working eighteen-hour days, dark circles bruising the skin beneath his eyes.
“Fine,” he muttered. “We’ll go. But I need a date.”
I froze, my pen hovering over my notepad. “A date?”
“Charity galas in Greenwich require arm candy, Marisol,” Caleb said dryly, leaning back in his chair. “Especially since my last public appearance ended with my fiancée throwing a six-thousand-dollar cake across the room and getting banished to Newport.”
“Surely you have... associates who would love to attend,” I hedged, my heart suddenly doing a nervous flutter against my ribs.
“Associates? You mean mob wives and social climbers who want to wear borrowed Cartier diamonds and report back to the New York families?” Caleb shook his head. “No thank you. I want someone intelligent, someone who won't embarrass me, and someone who knows how to handle Vincent Rossi if he decides to crash the party.”
“And you think I can handle Vincent Rossi in a ballroom full of politicians?”
“I watched you stop him in the third-floor hallway with one hand on his chest,” Caleb reminded me, a smirk playing on his lips. “You were magnificent.”
May you like
I felt a hot flush creep up my neck. “That was different. That was business.”
“This is business, too,” Caleb said smoothly, standing up from his desk and walking around to stop right in front of me. “Friday night. Seven o'clock. Marcus will have a dress delivered to your suite by Thursday afternoon. Don't argue with me, Marisol. It’s an order.”
