Chapter 2 - The Audit of the UnderworldWalking out of Bellarosa into the chilly Brooklyn night felt like stepping out of a decompression chamber. The air was sharp, tasting of exhaust and oncoming autumn rain, but for the first time in years, my lungs didn't feel constricted. I had no job, rent was due in twelve days, and my savings account held exactly forty-two dollars and sixteen cents.
Yet, as I walked the six blocks to my cramped third-floor apartment, the heavy card in my apron pocket felt heavier than lead.
By the time I unlocked my apartment door and kicked off my ruined shoes, my phone began to vibrate violently on the kitchen counter. I stared at the screen, expecting Marco, or perhaps an eviction notice from my landlord. Instead, the caller ID displayed a private, unlisted Manhattan number.
I let it ring out. It stopped for ten seconds, then buzzed again.
On the third attempt, my stubbornness gave way to curiosity. I swiped the screen and pressed it to my ear.
"If this is Marco, I am not coming back to clean the grease traps," I said flatly.
A low, rich chuckle echoed through the line. "I assure you, Miss Ellis, Marco is currently sitting in his office hyperventilating into a cloth napkin, wondering how to explain your resignation to the restaurant’s regional director."
Antonio Russo’s voice filled my ear, clear and steady, making the cramped kitchen feel instantly smaller.
"How did you—" I stopped myself, rolling my eyes. "Of course you know I quit. Your spies are probably stationed in every alleyway in Brooklyn."
"Only the interesting ones," Antonio replied smoothly. "And you, Sophie, have officially become the most interesting thing to happen in this borough this month. Are you safe at home?"
"I am in my apartment, yes. And I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, Mr. Russo."
"Antonio," he corrected quietly. "And I seriously doubt you are capable of taking care of your dinner tonight, considering you walked out in the middle of a double shift."
Before I could argue, a sharp rap echoed against my apartment door.
I froze, my hand tightening around the phone. My apartment building wasn't a fortress; the front buzzer had been broken since May, and anyone could walk up the creaking wooden stairs.
"Did you... did you send someone to my apartment?" I asked, a sudden spike of panic overriding my exhaustion.
"Open the door, Sophie," Antonio’s voice was calm, steady, and entirely non-negotiable. "It's just Leo. He has food, and more importantly, he has a proposition that will keep you from having to choose between rent and groceries this month."
I crept slowly across the linoleum floor, peering through the peephole. Standing in the dim, flickering hallway was the tall man with the scarred eyebrow from the night I first met Maria—Leo, wearing a dark coat and holding two heavy paper bags that smelled overwhelmingly of garlic, fresh basil, and roasted veal from an upscale trattoria down on Atlantic Avenue.
I unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open six inches, keeping the chain latch firmly in place.
Leo didn't try to push past. He simply raised his eyebrows, holding up the bags. "The boss says you haven't eaten properly in three days, and since you just quit your primary source of income, he thought a temporary consulting gig might be in order."
"A consulting gig?" I echoed, staring at him through the crack. "I’m a former nursing student who used to serve osso buco to stockbrokers. What could I possibly consult the Russo syndicate on?"
"Not the syndicate, Miss Ellis," Leo said, a faint ghost of a smile touching his rugged face. "Maria. She’s decided that her personal health regimen is completely mismanaged by her doctors, and she refuses to let anyone else manage her medication schedule except the waitress who noticed her hands were shaking."
I stared at him, dumbfounded. "She wants to hire me as a nurse?"
"She wants to hire you as her chief of staff for wellness," Leo corrected smoothly. "The pay is absurd, the hours are flexible, and it comes with full health benefits—including the completion of your nursing degree at Columbia, if you so choose."
The room seemed to tilt. Columbia. The nursing degree I had abandoned when my grandmother’s medical bills consumed our last dime. Tuition, clinical hours, textbooks—all of it wiped out with a single offer delivered by a mob enforcer standing in a rundown Brooklyn hallway.
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"This is a bribe," I whispered, my heart hammering against my ribs. "A very sophisticated, terrifying bribe."
"It’s not a bribe, Sophie," Antonio’s voice came clearly through the open speaker of the phone still clutched in my hand. "It’s an investment. My mother hasn't smiled that genuinely in three years, and you made her laugh while carrying a tray of appetizers. Open the door for Leo. Let’s talk business like civilized people."
