Chapter 2 - The Dinner at the Drake"Leaving, Mr. Marino?" I asked, my brow furrowing in confusion as I held my leather folder against my chest. "We have three secondary ledger reviews for the South Side terminals, and the quarterly payroll for the dock workers needs final authorization."
"Frank can handle the dock payroll," Dante answered, walking around his desk. He reached for his dark wool overcoat hanging on the standing rack near the door, slipping his broad arms into the sleeves. "And as for the ledger reviews... you're going to explain them to me over dinner."
"Dinner?" I blinked. "It's two o'clock in the afternoon."
"Then we'll call it a late lunch," Dante said flatly, holding the office door open for me.
Ten minutes later, we stepped out through the private rear entrance of the Marino Building into the cold, rain-slicked alley where a sleek, midnight-black Maybach was idling.
Dante’s chief security officer, Frank—a broad-shouldered man with a scarred jaw who usually looked ready to break a man’s neck—opened the rear door for us. Frank glanced at me with a look of pure, disbelieving wonder, as if he were staring at a woman who had somehow tamed a hurricane.
We glided through the rain-drenched streets of Chicago toward the historic Drake Hotel on the Gold Coast.
The private, top-floor dining suite at the Drake was completely empty, reserved exclusively for Dante’s arrival. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a sweeping, breathtaking view of the dark, crashing waves of Lake Michigan shrouded in fog.
White linen covered the round table near the window, lit by soft crystal candlelight, while two waiters in crisp tuxedos served vintage red wine, seared ribeye steaks, and warm truffle butter bread.
Dante sat across from me, his charcoal jacket unbuttoned, his storm-gray eyes fixed on my face as I took a small sip of ice water.
"You've worked for me for two years, Emily," Dante spoke softly, taking a slow sip of his wine. "You process my wire transfers, you manage my real estate trusts, and you handle forty million dollars in annual revenue. Yet, whenever I enter the office, you hand me a pen, state a deadline, and walk out."
"I am your chief financial manager, Mr. Marino," I explained calmly, setting my glass down. "My job is to ensure your financial infrastructure remains legal, liquid, and protected from federal interference. It is not my place to engage in personal conversation."
Dante leaned forward, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth, his eyes burning with an intense, quiet curiosity.
"Fourteen women held your position before you, Emily," Dante revealed. "Twelve of them quit within a month because they couldn't handle the sight of armed guards or the sound of shouting in the halls. Two of them tried to sell my accounting records to the federal prosecutor."
He reached out his broad, calloused hand, laying it flat on the white linen inches from mine.
"You didn't quit," Dante said softly. "And when I was thirty seconds away from putting a bullet through Sal Genovese's head... you complained about the cost of steam-cleaning a Persian rug."
A faint, involuntary smile touched the corners of my lips before I could stop it.
"It was a four-thousand-dollar silk Isfahan rug, Mr. Marino," I noted deadpan. "Imported from London last year. Blood stains ruin silk fibers permanently."
Dante let out another short, deep rumble of laughter—a sound so rich and genuine it warmed the cold glass of the dining suite.
"Clara used to say the exact same thing," Dante murmured, his voice dropping into a rare, quiet reverie. "She hated when my men wore boots in the house."
The mention of his late wife’s name hung in the air—not as a dark, painful shadow, but as a soft, gentle bridge between us.
Before I could answer, the heavy double doors of the dining suite were pushed open.
May you like
Frank stepped inside, his face pale, his hand resting near his holster, his voice laced with sudden, sharp tension.
"Don Dante," Frank reported quickly. "We have a problem. Sal Genovese’s brother... Dominic... just pulled three SUVs up to the front entrance of the hotel."
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