Chapter 3 - The Interrogation in the StudyBy nine o'clock, the storm outside had cleared, leaving the Manhattan skyline gleaming under a harsh, gray morning light.
I sat behind the massive oak desk in the study, my fingers steepened together, watching the door. A few minutes later, the heavy wood creaked open, and Khloe stepped inside, flanked by two armed guards.
She had changed into a fresh white blouse and black slacks—spare clothes we kept in the staff quarters for emergencies. Her hair was neatly combed, but the dark circles beneath her eyes were still visible, and her hands were tightly clasped in front of her. She looked smaller in the cold light of day, a fragile silhouette against the dark, intimidating walls of my private domain.
She didn't look at my face. True to form, her eyes fixed steadily on a brass paperweight sitting on the corner of the desk.
“Sit down, Khloe,” I said.
She swallowed hard, her fingers tightening around each other, but she took the leather chair opposite me. “Mr. Costa. I… I apologize for falling asleep in your quarters last night. It was entirely unprofessional. I lost track of time while organizing the zoning manifests, and the exhaustion just… overtook me. It won't happen again.”
“You wandered into the one room in this entire estate that is strictly off-limits to everyone, including my capos,” I said smoothly, watching her reactions like a hawk. “You slept in my bed. And while you were sleeping, you mentioned a floor safe and a backup ledger.”
Khloe froze.
The color drained entirely from her face, leaving her skin nearly translucent. For a terrifying second, I thought she might faint. But she didn't break down or start crying; instead, a strange, grim resignation settled over her features. She slowly lifted her chin, finally raising her eyes to meet mine directly.
“If you’re going to kill me, Mr. Costa,” she said, her voice terrifyingly steady, “please do it quickly. And make sure my student loan debt dies with me, because my mother shouldn't have to inherit Sallie Mae collections.”
I stared at her, genuinely stunned by her morbid composure. “Kill you? Khloe, you think I execute my administrative staff for sleepwalking?”
“You run a criminal syndicate, Mr. Costa,” she replied, her voice dropping its nervous corporate timbre and hardening into something sharp and precise. “I’ve spent two years processing your freight invoices. I know that three containers marked ‘Agricultural Machinery’ that arrived from Rotterdam last month actually contained fifty thousand rounds of smuggled ammunition. I know that the ‘consulting fees’ paid to councilman Alvarez were kickbacks for the harbor-development zoning permits. And I know that if the federal government gets their hands on the ledger in your floor safe, you’re looking at twenty years in a federal penitentiary.”
The study went dead silent. You could hear a pin drop on the thick carpet.
Paulie, standing near the door, slowly reached for his firearm, his eyes widening in pure horror. “Boss… she knows everything. She knows the whole operation.”
I raised my hand, signaling Paulie to stand down. I never took my eyes off Khloe. She was sitting across from me, trembling slightly, yet holding her ground against a man who made hardened criminals beg for mercy.
“How long?” I asked softly. ရှင်
“Since my third month,” she answered without hesitation. “When I found the discrepancy in the shipping manifests for the New Jersey docks and tried to fix it, only to have you personally hand it back to me with a warning to mind my own business. I realized then that my art history degree wasn't going to pay my rent, but Costa Logistics was paying twenty-two dollars an hour with full dental. So I learned how to keep my mouth shut.”
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“Then why mention the floor safe last night?” I pressed. “Why risk everything?”
Khloe’s expression darkened, a flash of genuine anger breaking through her disciplined facade. “Because federal agents aren't just investigating us by accident, Mr. Costa. Someone inside your own organization sold you out. Someone gave the DOJ the exact coordinates of our backup accounts. And if you go down, the federal prosecutors are going to drag every single employee down with you—including the twenty-six-year-old secretary who processed your paperwork.”
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