Chapter 2 - The New Contract
At 7:15 the next morning, my phone chimed with a bank alert. I nearly dropped my mug of instant coffee onto the Formica counter.
Direct Deposit Received: $15,000.00. Sender: Rossi Holdings LLC.
My heart thudded violently against my ribs. $15,000 wasn't a paycheck; it was a trap. Or a mistake. Or the prelude to something I wasn't prepared to handle.
I shoved Mia into her winter coat, escorted her down the three flights of stairs to the school bus stop, and stood on the sidewalk until the yellow bus turned the corner. The chilly autumn air stung my face, but it didn't wake me up from what felt like an unsettling dream.
When I arrived at the Rossi estate at 8:30 a.m., I bypassed the utility closets and walked straight toward the main study. My rubber-soled sneakers squeaked against the polished marble floor of the grand foyer. The house was dead quiet. No guards in the hallway, no classical music drifting from the parlor. Just the low hum of the estate's massive heating system.
I knocked twice on the heavy mahogany door of the study.
"In," Zo's voice rasped from inside.
I stepped through the door. The room smelled of dark leather, pipe tobacco, and cedarwood. Zo was sitting behind a glass-topped desk, a cup of black coffee at his elbow, reviewing a stack of thick legal files. He didn't look like a man who commanded three hundred soldiers across the Midwest; he looked like an exhausted CEO carrying the weight of a corporate empire.
"You put fifteen thousand dollars into my account," I said without greeting him.
He didn't look up from his file. "Your bank details were on your employment tax forms."
"I can't accept that."
"It isn't a gift, Tessa," he said smoothly, turning a page. "It’s an advance on your new contract."
I blinked. "My new contract?"
Zo finally looked up. His dark brown eyes were piercing, rimmed with faint shadows of exhaustion. He leaned back in his leather chair, resting his hands over his stomach.
"As of eight o'clock this morning, you are no longer a third-party janitorial worker," he explained, his tone completely businesslike. "You are my personal assistant and residential manager."
"I don't know how to manage a residence," I argued, crossing my arms over my chest. "I know how to sanitize granite and vacuum oriental rugs."
"You know how to notice things," Zo countered. "You noticed the security camera blind spots in the east wing. You noticed that my second-in-command, Frankie, changes his ringtone every time he enters this hallway. And you noticed that I don't touch the food Carmine prepares unless it comes from a sealed kitchen batch."
My mouth opened, then closed. He was right. I noticed everything—it was a survival mechanism born from growing up in a chaotic house on the South Side.
"My previous residential manager was selling my schedule to the Moretti family," Zo said, his voice dropping an octave. "He’s no longer with us."
I didn't ask what 'no longer with us' meant. I wasn't stupid.
"I need someone inside this house who isn't interested in my money, my secrets, or my business," Zo continued, standing up and buttoning his charcoal suit jacket. "Someone whose only priority is survival and protecting her family. I pay you a hundred and twenty thousand a year, full health insurance effective immediately through Rossi Maritime, and a corporate credit card for house expenses. In return, you keep this house secure, you manage the domestic staff, and you report anything unusual directly to me."
A hundred and twenty thousand dollars. Full insurance.
Mia’s insulin wouldn't be a monthly gamble. We wouldn't have to choose between continuous glucose monitors and heat in November.
"What's the catch?" I asked, my voice trembling despite my best efforts to stay firm.
Zo walked around the desk, stopping two feet away from me. He was tall, easily six-foot-two, towering over my five-foot-four frame. But he didn't lean over me. He maintained a respectful distance, his posture straight.
"The catch is that people in my world will notice you," Zo said quietly. "They will see a young woman moved from the cleaning crew into my inner circle. They will assume you are my weakness, or my mistress, or both."
"And am I?"
"You are my employee, Tessa," he said firmly. "I don't touch the people who work for me. But if you take this contract, you carry the weight of my name inside these walls. If that scares you, take the fifteen thousand, pay off your daughter's medical bills, and walk out the gate. I won't stop you."
I looked at him—really looked at him. Beneath the tailored suit and the cold mafia kingpin reputation was a man living in an iron cage, surrounded by men waiting for him to bleed.
"Does the insurance cover pediatric insulin pumps?" I asked softly.
May you like
Zo reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a thick navy folder, and tossed it onto the glass table. "Top tier. Zero deductible. The specialty pharmacy delivers to your apartment starting tomorrow."
I took a deep breath, reaching for the pen resting beside the folder. "Where do I sign?"
