Chapter 4: The Desk Next to Danger

"Leo"

I spent the entire weekend barely sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Don Vittorio's gray stare and that cigar smoke drifting in my direction. Mingau, sensing my nerves, spent every night sprawled across my chest, purring loudly as if trying to remind me I was still alive.

Monday morning, I pulled on my lucky blue blazer and walked to the building on legs that felt like jelly.

When the elevator sailed past the twentieth floor — where the general accounting department and my former colleagues sat — and kept climbing straight to the penthouse, my stomach dropped. The doors opened on the fortieth floor, and the first thing I saw was a sleek black glass desk, minimalist and gleaming, positioned strategically right beside the enormous wooden door of the president's office.

"That's your new workstation, kid." Enzo's deep voice made me jump. He'd materialized from the corridor with his arms crossed, the scar on his face looking even more intimidating under the harsh overhead lights.

"It's... really nice. You can see the whole city," I offered, trying to swallow past the dryness in my throat as I powered on the state-of-the-art computer already sitting on the desk.

"A word of advice: don't make noise, don't touch what you shouldn't, and when the Don calls, go in immediately. He hates waiting." Enzo planted himself beside the elevator like a statue.

I took a deep breath and sat down. In less than five minutes, the office door swung open. Vittorio stepped through in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit. His woodsy cologne invaded the space instantly. He didn't so much as glance at me as he walked to my desk and dropped a black leather folder on top of my keyboard.

"My office. Now." He issued the command in that low voice that sent a chill down my spine.

I grabbed the folder and followed him into the dim office. He sat behind the massive desk and steepled his fingers, watching me.

"Your tripled salary has already been deposited, and your outstanding rent was paid off this morning," Vittorio began, cutting straight to business. "Now I want to see if you're actually worth what I'm paying. Open the folder."

I unzipped it with slightly trembling hands. Inside were dozens of pages filled with complex international transaction tables, coded with shell company names across Europe and the Caribbean.

"I want you to cross-reference this data and find out how the government is trying to trace our maritime export accounts. You have until end of day." He picked up a document and turned his attention to it, as if I'd already vanished.

"Sir... Don Vittorio?" I called out, timidly.

He raised his gray eyes slowly, arching one eyebrow.

"What?"

"I... I'm going to need a coffee to focus. Would you like one too? I promise I'll set it on your desk without spilling a single drop."

Vittorio stared at me for a long, excruciating beat, his face completely unreadable. For a moment, I thought he was about to fire me — or worse. But then his shoulders relaxed by a fraction.

"Black. No sugar," he replied, returning to his document. "And if a single drop lands on my desk, Leo... you'll find out just how uncomfortable the basement of this building can be."

I left the office practically flying, clutching the documents against my chest. I was terrified, yes. But as I walked toward the break room, I realized that behind all that coldness and veiled threats, Don Vittorio had done exactly what he'd promised: he'd saved my skin with the rent. Now I needed to prove that the kid in the blue blazer who'd spilled the coffee could be the best ally he'd ever had.