Ignoring New York’s most dangerous mafia boss was supposed to cost me a tip,

The executive suite of Moretti Global Holdings occupied the entire forty-second floor of the marble-and-glass tower at 300 South State Street, overlooking the glittering expanse of Grant Park and the dark, icy waters of Lake Michigan.

It was 8:45 on Thursday morning—twelve hours after the encounter at the Duane Reade, and forty-eight hours after Samantha Cole had tried to humiliate me at The Violet Tower.

I sat behind an antique mahogany partner’s desk that was three times larger than my entire apartment kitchen.

I wore my best skirt—a tailored charcoal wool number I had bought at a consignment shop in Hyde Park two years ago—paired with a clean white silk blouse and low-heeled black pumps that did not require electrical tape.

On my left wrist sat a heavy, nineteen-forty-three Omega stainless-steel watch that had belonged to my grandfather; on the desk before me sat an open titanium laptop, a stack of certified corporate tax returns from Vance, Sterling & Croft, and a ceramic mug of dark roast coffee that Mrs. Donatelli—the elderly housekeeper from the Astor Street mansion—had personally delivered to my office fifteen minutes ago along with a warm blueberry scone.

The glass double doors of the office clicked open with a soft, magnetic hum.

Mason Moretti walked in.

He wore a bespoke navy-blue three-piece suit from Anderson & Sheppard, his dark hair brushed straight back, his pale scar catching the morning light as he tossed his leather briefcase onto the side credenza.

He didn't sit down at his own desk across the room.

He walked straight over to my partner’s desk, leaned his hips against the mahogany edge, and looked down at the financial statements I had been auditing since six o'clock.

"Arthur Vance has been on the phone with the state banking commission for three hours," Mason said. His voice was smooth, deep, unhurried. "He’s trying to file an emergency injunction to block our acquisition of his firm’s secondary accounts receivable."

"He’s wasting his time," I said, not looking up from the spreadsheet, my fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard with rhythmic precision. "Vance, Sterling & Croft haven't paid their municipal franchise tax in four years. I found three unrecorded shell accounts registered in the Cayman Islands under his wife’s maiden name. If he files an injunction, the state attorney general's office will have his commercial license revoked before the ink dries."

A faint, razor-sharp smile touched the corners of Mason’s mouth.

"You've been here three days, Clara, and you’ve already dismantled my primary accountant's life's work," he murmured. "Are you always this efficient, or is Arthur Vance just a particularly satisfying target?"

I stopped typing.

I turned my head, looking up into his dark, intelligent eyes.

"Arthur Vance spent four years telling me that I was an illiterate girl who didn't know the difference between an accounts payable ledger and a grocery list," I said, my voice dropping into a cold, steady register. "While he was stealing thirty thousand dollars a month from the municipal transit fund to pay for his daughter’s summer home in Lake Geneva."

I reached out, tapped the titanium screen of my laptop with my pen.

"The money he stole didn't belong to him, Mason. It belonged to the city. And since I am now the Chief Financial Compliance Officer of Moretti Global Holdings—according to the employment contract you forced me to sign at two o'clock on Tuesday morning—it is my legal obligation to make sure every single dollar is recovered."

Mason reached out.

His large, scarred hand came down over mine where it rested on the desk, his warm fingers wrapping around my knuckles with an absolute, immovable pressure that made my breath catch in my throat.

"You didn't have to sign the contract, Clara," he reminded me softly.

"Of course I did," I shot back, lifting my chin. "You offered me twelve thousand dollars a month, full medical coverage for Maya, and a company-issued vehicle with snow tires. Only a fool would turn down an offer from the most feared man in Chicago when her sister needs insulin."

"Is that all I am to you?" he asked.

His voice didn't sound angry. It sounded dangerously quiet—the kind of quiet that precedes a storm. "A payroll check and some snow tires?"

Before I could answer, the glass double doors swung open without a knock.

Samantha Cole marched into the executive suite.

She was not wearing her sequined party dress. She wore a tailored ivory Chanel suit, her blonde hair styled in a severe, perfect chignon, her face pale with a mixture of furious, unadulterated rage and sheer, breathless panic.

"Mason!" Samantha shrieked, ignoring Dante, who had stepped out from the hallway with his hand resting on his holster.

She marched right up to the mahogany desk, slammed her leather handbag down onto my audit spreadsheets, and pointed a manicured crimson fingernail directly at my face.

"What is the meaning of this?!" she screamed, her voice echoing off the floor-to-ceiling windows. "My father’s accounts have been frozen by the state banking board! The entire downtown office was raided by the attorney general's forensic accountants thirty minutes ago! They’re saying Vance, Sterling & Croft are facing thirty counts of wire fraud and grand larceny!"

She turned her venomous blue eyes onto me.

"And you! You little parasite from the slums! You were supposed to be serving drinks at The Violet Tower! What did you do to my father?!"

I didn't flinch.

I didn't stand up.

I slowly closed my laptop, picked up my ceramic coffee mug, and took a deliberate, unhurried sip of my coffee while Samantha stood panting like a cornered animal.