Chapter 2 - The Audit and the AftermathBy 2:15 PM, Beatrice Vance was sitting at the visitor’s chair across from my metal desk in the outer office, her sharp, bespectacled eyes scanning our quarterly tax filings with the predatory joy of a hawk spotting a field mouse in winter.
“Miss Davies,” Beatrice purred, her finger tapping against page four. “These deductions for ‘independent logistics consulting’ on the South Side docks are remarkably vague. Four hundred thousand dollars in cash payments, routed through three separate shell accounts with no corresponding bills of lading.”
“Consulting on heavy cargo transit, Mrs. Vance,” I replied smoothly, keeping my voice sweet and professional while my brain raced at a hundred miles an hour. “Chicago port traffic is notoriously congested. We retain specialized local experts to ensure timely container clearance.”
“Experts who apparently don't have tax ID numbers,” Beatrice noted, adjusting her glasses. She looked up at me, her expression turning glacial. “I’ve been auditing organized crime front companies in Cook County for twenty-two years, Miss Davies. I know a protection racket ledger when I see one. If Mr. Marino cannot produce verifiable contracts for these expenses by Friday morning, I’m referring this entire corporation to the federal grand jury.”
Before I could formulate a polite way to tell her that our CEO was currently meditating on homicide in the next room, the frosted glass door of Dante’s private office swung open.
Dante stepped out. He had taken off his suit jacket, rolling up his white dress shirt sleeves to reveal strong, corded forearms dusted with dark hair. He looked terrifyingly calm.
Beatrice Vance, a woman who routinely made corporate executives twice her size weep into their coffee cups, froze.
“Mr. Marino,” Beatrice said, her voice dropping an octave as she instinctively straightened her posture.
Dante walked over, his stride unhurried and lethal. He didn't look at Beatrice; he looked at me.
“Emily,” he said quietly. “Did Mrs. Vance find our logistics expenses satisfactory?”
“She’s fascinated by our container clearance strategies, sir,” I replied without blinking.
Dante glanced down at the audit file in Beatrice’s hands. He reached out, his long fingers gently resting on the corner of the paper, and pulled the file out of her grip with effortless authority. He didn't read it. He simply dropped it into the document shredder beside my desk.
Whirrrrr-crunch-rip.
In three seconds, four hundred thousand dollars in questionable tax deductions were reduced to confetti.
Beatrice gasped, leaping out of her chair. “Mr. Marino! That is federal audit material! Destruction of active IRS documentation is a felony—”
“Mrs. Vance,” Dante interrupted, his voice dropping into that dark, velvety register that made the hair on my arms stand up. He stepped closer to the auditor, towering over her by a foot. “Let me make something abundantly clear to you. Your office has audited this firm every single year for the last decade. Every year, you find irregularities. Every year, you write a stern report. And every year, my legal team settles out of court.”
He leaned in slightly, his gray eyes narrowing. “If you ever walk into my building again and attempt to audit our logistics division without prior federal subpoena authorization, I will personally ensure that your three cats are rehomed to an exotic animal sanctuary in rural Montana, and your Buick is crushed into a square block of scrap metal before you reach the lobby.”
Beatrice’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She looked at Dante, looked at the shredded confetti in my bin, grabbed her briefcase with shaking hands, and practically sprinted toward the elevator banks.
The elevator doors chimed and swallowed her whole.
I sat back in my ergonomic mesh chair, exhaling a long, shaky breath, and looked up at my boss. “Well. There goes our chance at a friendly tax settlement.”
Dante turned his gaze from the elevator back to me. The dangerous edge in his eyes softened, replaced by something far more complicated—something hungry and unsettling.
“She was annoying you,” Dante said simply.
“She was doing her job, Mr. Marino. Much like I am currently doing mine.” I stood up, smoothing down my pencil skirt. “By the way, Sal is waiting in the basement parking garage. Do you want me to call a tow truck for his car, or are we letting him walk home in the rain?”
“Send him to the docks,” Dante said, walking back toward his office door. He stopped on the threshold, looking back over his shoulder. “And Emily?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Wear a different color tomorrow. Black and gray make you look like you’re attending a funeral every day.”
“Black and gray don't show coffee stains, Mr. Marino,” I retorted.
A ghost of a smile—the second one I had ever seen on his face—touched the corner of his lips before he slipped back inside and closed the door.
May you like
I sat back down, my heart hammering against my ribs. I had survived the IRS. I had survived Sal’s treason. But as I stared at the closed mahogany door, I realized the most dangerous thing in that building wasn't the man with the gun.
It was the fact that he was starting to notice me.
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