Chapter 6 - The Final LedgerTwo months later, the sun was shining brightly over downtown Chicago, casting a golden glow across the forty-second-floor office of the Marino Building.
The corkboard on the far wall was gone, replaced by a massive, sunlit canvas painting of white peonies. The ledgers were balanced, the federal prosecutors had closed their investigation into Marcus Vance (who was currently facing twenty years in a federal penitentiary), and Sal Genovese had permanently retired to a very quiet farm in rural Montana.
I was sitting behind my desk, reviewing the monthly payroll reports on my laptop, when the private office door swung open.
Dante walked in carrying two cups of specialty coffee from the Italian cafe down the street, wearing a relaxed navy button-down with the top two buttons open. He walked straight over to my desk, set a cup down beside my keyboard, and leaned down to press a warm, lingering kiss against the top of my head.
“Morning, Chief Executive Secretary,” Dante murmured against my hair.
“Morning, Boss,” I smiled, taking a sip of the vanilla latte he had specially ordered for me. I glanced at the calendar on my screen. “You know, by my calculations, between the salary increase and the restructuring of our real estate assets, we’ve managed to pre-fund Leo’s care facility for the next five years.”
Dante pulled up a chair right beside my desk, sitting backward with his arms resting on the backrest, looking at me with undisguised adoration.
“And how is Leo doing?” he asked gently.
“He’s doing wonderfully,” I beamed, my heart swelling. “His physical therapist says he took twenty unassisted steps yesterday. He’s getting stronger every week.”
Dante reached across the desk, taking my hand in his, interlacing his fingers with mine.
“Good,” he said softly. “Because as soon as he’s ready, I want him to move into the guest house at the estate. We have plenty of room.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, a playful smirk touching my lips. “The estate? Mr. Marino, are you officially asking me to move out of my tiny apartment and into your heavily fortified mob compound?”
“It’s not a compound anymore, Emily,” Dante chuckled, his dark eyes sparkling with quiet joy. “I had the security turrets removed last week. Now it’s just a home.”
Before I could reply, the intercom on my desk buzzed.
I pressed the button. “Front desk.”
“Emily,” the nervous voice of the new receptionist came through the speaker. “There’s a... a gentleman here to see Mr. Marino. He insists on coming up. He says his name is Viktor Petrov.”
The temperature in the office seemed to drop instantly. Viktor Petrov was Dante’s most dangerous, unpredictable rival on the North Side—a man who had been waiting years for a moment of weakness to strike.
I looked at Dante, my expression hardening into pure, unadulterated executive efficiency.
Dante didn't reach for a gun. He didn't frown. He simply took another sip of his coffee, a slow, predatory smirk spreading across his face.
“Send him up, Emily,” Dante said smoothly.
I pressed the intercom button. “Send him up. And, Sarah?”
“Y-yes, Ms. Carter?”
“Remind Mr. Petrov to wipe his shoes on the mat before he steps onto the Persian rugs. We just had them steam-cleaned on Tuesday, and I refuse to pay the biohazard surcharge twice.”
May you like
Dante threw his head back and laughed—a rich, booming sound of absolute happiness that filled the entire forty-second floor, echoing out into the Chicago sky.
And for the first time in nine years, there wasn't a single shadow left in the room.
