THE MAFIA BOSS ASKED ME ONE QUESTION MY FAMILY NEVER DID

“Don't turn around.”

The words left my mouth before I had time to reconsider them.

Roman looked at me.

“You just watched your father destroy records.”

“Exactly.”

The driver slowed.

Roman kept his eyes on me.

“Explain.”

“If we go back now, Dad knows I told you something.”

“He already knows you're an accountant.”

“He doesn't know what I noticed.”

“What did you notice?”

I stared at the frozen security image on Roman’s phone.

Daniel Mercer stood beside my father.

I had worked under Daniel for nearly three years.

He had taught me how to read complex construction contracts, how to catch duplicate invoices, how to trace cash flow through subsidiaries.

He had also taught me, unintentionally, how frightened powerful men became when someone asked the right question.

“Last spring,” I said, “I found payments to a consulting company called North Harbor Strategies.”

“How much?”

“Almost six hundred thousand across seven months.”

“For what?”

“I asked Daniel.”

“What did he say?”

“Government relations.”

Roman’s eyebrow moved.

“And?”

“North Harbor had no website. No office. No employees listed anywhere. Its mailing address was a private mailbox in Stamford.”

“You told your father?”

“Yes.”

“What did he do?”

“He promoted Daniel.”

Roman leaned back.

That was when I understood how strange this conversation was.

I had spent years being told not to question anything.

Now the most feared man I had ever met was listening as if every word mattered.

“Where are the records?” he asked.

“Company server.”

“If they’re still there.”

“Daniel can't delete everything.”

“You sound certain.”

“I designed the backup procedure.”

That surprised him.

I couldn't help it.

I smiled faintly.

“Dad didn’t trust IT after a ransomware incident, so he asked me to make the accounting archives idiot-proof.”

“Was that his terminology?”

“His language was less polite.”

Roman looked toward the driver.

“Continue to the estate.”

The SUV accelerated.

“Why?”

“Because you're right.”

“About what?”

“If we return now, they know exactly what we're looking for.”

He studied me.

“So we let them believe you're frightened and uninformed.”

“I am frightened.”

“That doesn't make you uninformed.”

I looked away.

It was an unexpectedly kind thing to say.

And kindness made me more suspicious of Roman than cruelty would have.

Men like my father used kindness as currency.

They invested it only when they expected repayment.

Roman seemed to sense my hesitation.

“You don't owe me anything, Sadie.”

“My father owes you millions.”

“Your father does.”

“And I'm sitting in your car because of it.”

“You're sitting in my car because you chose to leave.”

“Would you have walked away from the debt?”

“No.”

There it was.

The direct answer.

No false comfort.

I respected it more than I wanted to.

“What happens if Dad never pays you?”

“I deal with Thomas.”

“How?”

Roman looked out the window.

“Legally where possible.”

“And where it isn't possible?”

His eyes returned to mine.

“You don't need those details.”

I should have been afraid.

Maybe I was.

But my fear was changing shape.

The Costa estate sat behind iron gates nearly forty minutes from my parents’ house.

I expected something theatrical.

Guards.

Stone lions.

Men carrying weapons openly.

Instead I found a sprawling old house surrounded by bare oak trees.

Elegant.

Quiet.

Almost severe.

Security lights illuminated the driveway.

A woman in her sixties opened the door before we reached it.

“Mr. Costa.”

“Mrs. Bell.”

Her gaze moved to me.

No surprise.

No judgment.

“Guest room?”

Roman nodded.

“The east wing.”

“Of course.”

I stepped inside.

Warm air wrapped around me.

No one confiscated my phone.

No one searched my suitcase.

Roman removed his coat.

“This is Mrs. Bell. She runs the house.”

Mrs. Bell gave him a dry look.

“I prevent the house from becoming uninhabitable.”

Roman ignored that.

“She’ll get you anything you need.”

I looked between them.

“How many kidnapped accountants do you usually host?”

Mrs. Bell blinked.

Roman stared at me.

Then, impossibly, Mrs. Bell laughed.

“I like her.”

“She's not kidnapped,” Roman said.

“I know.”

“How?”

“Kidnapped women don't insult you before they've taken off their shoes.”

Roman's mouth twitched.

Something loosened inside my chest.

Only slightly.

Mrs. Bell showed me upstairs.

The guest suite was larger than my apartment in college.

A sitting room.

Bedroom.

Private bathroom.

A balcony overlooking gardens gone dormant for winter.

“There are clean towels in the cabinet,” she said. “Kitchen is downstairs. Roman works late, so don't let his terrible schedule convince you normal people don't eat breakfast.”

“You've known him long?”

“Since he was twelve.”

I hesitated.

“Is he dangerous?”

Mrs. Bell considered me.

“Yes.”

Her honesty startled me.

“But not careless.”

“That isn't exactly reassuring.”

“It wasn't intended to be.”

She headed toward the door.

“Mrs. Bell?”

She turned.

“Why did he bring me here?”

“You'd have to ask him.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“He said I chose to leave.”

She nodded.

“That sounds like Roman.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means when he gives his word, pay attention to the exact words.”

Then she left.

I opened my laptop.

The Miller Development remote portal still accepted my credentials.

Interesting.

If Dad had sent me away because he feared what I knew, why hadn't he shut me out?

Either he hadn't thought of it yet.

Or someone wanted me logging in.

I stopped before entering my password.

Paranoia.

Or accounting instinct.

I disconnected from Wi-Fi.

At 1:12 a.m., someone knocked.

Roman stood outside.

No jacket.

Black shirt with the sleeves rolled slightly.

He held a mug.

“Mrs. Bell said you don't sleep when you're worried.”

“She met me thirty minutes ago.”

“She’s efficient.”

He offered the mug.

Tea.

I accepted it.

“Roman?”

“Yes?”

“Can you trace North Harbor?”

“Probably.”

“I want to know who owns it.”

“Why?”

“Because if my father is burning records, whatever he’s hiding is bigger than your loan.”

Roman watched me carefully.

“You understand something.”

“What?”

“If you start digging, there's no guarantee you like what you find.”

“My family offered me to you before dessert.”

I took a sip of tea.

“My standards for tonight are already low.”

A small smile finally reached his face.

Then disappeared.

“I’ll have someone check North Harbor.”

“Thank you.”

“I want something in return.”

There it was.

I should have known.

“What?”

“Tomorrow morning, you tell me everything you know about Miller Development.”

I stiffened.

“You said I didn't owe you anything.”

“You don't.”

“Then why—”

“Because if your father borrowed money from me while someone was draining his company, I need to know whether I funded incompetence, fraud, or something worse.”

Fair.

I hated that it was fair.

“Fine.”

He turned to leave.

“Roman?”

He looked back.

“If you discover my father cheated you, what happens?”

His expression became unreadable.

“That depends on what he did.”

The door closed.

I sat on the edge of the bed with the tea warming my hands.

My phone buzzed.