Chapter 2 - Paulie’s Confession and the Morning BriefingThe private study down the hall smelled of stale cigar smoke and cold espresso. Paulie was standing by the window, nervously rolling an unlit Tuscan cheroot between his thick, calloused fingers. When the door swung open, he spun around instantly, his eyes wide with a mixture of guilt and anxiety.
“Boss,” Paulie muttered, clearing his throat. “You’re back early from the docks. And… well, I see you found out.”
I walked over to the mahogany desk, pulled out my chair, and sat down without breaking eye contact with my oldest lieutenant. “Found out what, Paulie? That you told a civilian girl to drop zoning permits off at my private residence in the middle of a nor'easter?”
Paulie flinched, looking down at his boots. “I didn't mean for her to go into your bedroom, Boss! I told her to wait in the upstairs study until the courier arrived to take the signed papers back to city hall. She must have taken a wrong turn in the dark hallway. You know how these old European-style layouts are—every door looks identical.”
“She didn't just walk into the room, Paulie,” I said, my voice dropping into a low, dangerous register that made him stiffen. “She fell asleep in my bed. And while she was asleep, she started talking.”
Paulie’s head snapped up, his jaw slack. “Talking? About what?”
“About the floor safe. About the backup ledger. About federal inspectors.” I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the desk. “Explain to me how an art history major from NYU knows about the second set of accounting books, Paulie. Because unless you’ve been running a training seminar for administrative assistants on the side, someone’s been leaking our operational architecture.”
“I swear on my mother’s grave, Vincent, I haven’t said a word to her!” Paulie protested, holding his hands up defensively. “She’s quiet as a mouse! She sits at her desk all day, reorganizing your filing cabinets, taking dictation, and drinking chamomile tea. She doesn't even talk to the other girls in logistics!”
“Quiet people are usually the ones hiding the biggest arsenals,” I said coldly, standing up and buttoning my suit jacket. “Where is she now?”
“Still asleep, I reckon,” Paulie whispered. “She looked half-dead when she dragged herself up the front steps last night. Soaked to the bone, shivering like a stray dog. I told her she could take a cab back to Brooklyn this morning on the company account, but…”
“Cancel the cab,” I interrupted. “She stays here until I question her.”
Before Paulie could argue, a sharp knock sounded at the outer study door. One of our perimeter guards stepped inside, looking grim.
“Mr. Costa,” the guard said tightly. “We’ve got a situation at the front gate. Federal agents from the DOJ’s organized crime division just pulled up in three unmarked sedans. They have a search warrant for the corporate headquarters… and an administrative subpoena for your personal financial records.”
The timing was too precise. Too surgical.
May you like
Federal agents arriving within hours of Khloe delivering those zoning permits.
I looked at Paulie, my mind racing through a dozen horrifying possibilities. Had Khloe really come to the estate by accident last night, or had she been planted by the federal government all along?
Related Stories
