Chapter 2 - Vincent filled a plate with bacon and scrambled eggs.
Set it in front of her.
Then placed down a fork.
“Eat.”
Khloe looked at the food.
Then him.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You look like you’re about to pass out again, and I don’t feel like carrying you to the couch this time.”
Vincent took a drink from his coffee.
“Besides, you saved me with those permits.”
“The least I can do is feed you before you drive back to that miserable apartment.”
Khloe blinked.
“You aren’t going to fire me?”
“You’re the only assistant who hasn’t tried to steal from me or sleep with me.”
Vincent’s tone remained flat.
“You do your job.”
“You keep your mouth shut.”
“Why would I fire you?”
Khloe looked toward the eggs.
The logic made sense.
The reality did not.
“Because I slept in your bed.”
A small cynical smile touched Vincent’s mouth.
It changed his face.
He looked younger.
Less exhausted.
“Technically, you slept on the edge of the mattress.”
“I slept in the chair.”
Khloe covered her face with both hands.
“This is a nightmare.”
“Eat your eggs, Khloe.”
It was the first time Vincent had ever used her first name.
A strange shiver moved through her.
It had nothing to do with the cold.
Khloe picked up the fork.
Monday morning tasted like ash and cheap coffee.
The fluorescent lights in the Costa Logistics administrative bullpen hummed with a miserable frequency that usually gave Khloe a headache by 10:00.
That Monday was worse.
She stared at a spreadsheet of shipping manifests.
The numbers blurred.
Her thoughts kept returning to the weekend.
The enormous bed.
The smell of cedar.
Vincent Costa flipping bacon in sweatpants.
It felt unreal.
Khloe had gone home, slept 14 hours on her lumpy futon, and spent Sunday trying to convince herself that the entire morning had been a hallucination produced by exhaustion.
Vincent Costa did not make small talk.
He did not make breakfast.
He ordered hits.
He bribed judges.
“Evans, are you deaf or just stupid today?”
Khloe flinched.
Paulie stood over her desk.
He was thick, flushed, and always appeared as though he had just climbed several flights of stairs.
He slammed a stack of invoices onto her keyboard.
“I asked for the harbor reports 20 minutes ago.”
“I emailed them at 9:00,” Khloe said quietly.
“I copied accounting.”
“I don’t want an email.”
“I want paper.”
Paulie leaned close enough for her to smell garlic and nicotine on his breath.
He slapped a hand against the desk.
“Do you think you get special privileges because you drove up to the boss’s house?”
“You’re a glorified typist.”
“Print the reports and have them on my desk in 5 minutes, or you can pack your sad little plant and find another job.”
Khloe swallowed her humiliation.
“Yes, Paulie.”
“Printing them now.”
Paulie opened his mouth again.
Then stopped.
His face went pale.
The entire administrative floor became silent.
Khloe turned slowly.
Vincent stood at the entrance.
Charcoal 3-piece suit.
Dark hair slicked back.
Expression hard and unreadable.
He rarely visited the administrative floor.
When he did, someone usually disappeared.
Vincent looked only at Paulie.
Then crossed the bullpen.
His steps were slow and deliberate.
He stopped beside Khloe’s desk.
“Paulie.”
His voice barely rose above a whisper.
Yet it carried across the silent room.
“Boss.”
Paulie’s upper lip was covered in sweat.
“We were just reviewing the harbor files. Making sure everything is ready for the council.”
Vincent looked at the disorganized invoices Paulie had thrown across Khloe’s keyboard.
Then at Khloe.
A minute shift appeared in his eyes.
Recognition.
He returned his attention to Paulie.
“Miss Evans’s time is valuable.”
“She is currently managing the logistical backend of a $20 million development project.”
“A project she secured at 2:00 in the morning while you were asleep.”
Paulie swallowed.
“I know, boss. I only needed hard copies.”
“If you want hard copies, Paulie, you know how to use a printer.”
The room seemed to become colder.
“Do not yell at my staff.”
“Do not waste her time.”
“And do not ever lean over her desk again.”
Paulie nodded repeatedly.
“Understood.”
“Completely understood, Mr. Costa.”
“Won’t happen again.”
Vincent held his gaze for 3 seconds.
“Go back to your office.”
Paulie hurried away.
Vincent looked down at Khloe.
Her fingers were wrapped tightly around the chair arms.
He reached for the invoices on her keyboard.
Then dropped them into the recycling bin beside the desk.
“Pack up your desk, Khloe.”
Her heart stopped.
He was firing her.
After defending her, he was going to fire her himself.
“Mr. Costa, I can handle Paulie. I—”
“You’re not fired.”
He buttoned his jacket.
“The desk outside my office is empty.”
“You’re moving upstairs.”
“I need someone who can actually read a zoning permit without sweating on it.”
Then Vincent turned and walked away.
Khloe remained frozen.
Every person in the bullpen was staring at her.
Slowly, she picked up her small potted succulent.
Then placed it into a cardboard box.
The top floor of Costa Logistics was another world.
Downstairs meant cheap carpet, flickering lights, and overheated copiers.
Upstairs meant dark mahogany, heavy soundproof rugs, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the harbor.
Quiet.
A deep, insulated quiet.
Khloe’s new desk was a massive slab of polished walnut placed directly outside Vincent’s double doors.
She no longer handled shipping manifests or angry dispatchers.
She controlled Vincent’s private calendar.
She met men who arrived in black SUVs, refused to give names, and left thick unmarked envelopes on her desk.
3 weeks passed.
Being this close to Vincent’s world created a physical tension in her shoulders.
He was demanding.
Never cruel.
He did not yell.
He did not throw objects.
He expected perfection.
When Khloe delivered it, he nodded and moved to the next crisis.
But now she saw things she could no longer ignore.
Bruised knuckles after Tuesday collection meetings.
The blank expression he wore while speaking to the O’Callahan crew.
The heavy matte-black handgun he removed from his holster each morning and placed in his top drawer.
Khloe was no longer standing at the edge of the blast radius.
She was sitting inside it.
One rainy Thursday afternoon, Vincent was behind closed doors with his 2 senior lieutenants, Frank and Dom.
Khloe was typing minutes from a legitimate city-planning meeting when the private elevator chimed.
The doors opened.
A courier stepped out.
He did not look like a normal delivery employee.
Heavy leather jacket.
Jagged scar through his left eyebrow.
Square cardboard box tied with thick white string.
He approached Khloe’s desk.
His eyes moved over her in a way she immediately disliked.
“Delivery for Costa.”
His accent was unmistakably South Boston Irish.
Khloe’s instincts sharpened.
Every delivery was supposed to be checked downstairs.
No one entered the private elevator without a key card.
“I can take that for him.”
The man smiled.
“Nah, sweetheart.”
“Declan said this goes directly to the boss.”
“Hands on.”
Declan O’Callahan.
Leader of the Irish crew pressing against Costa territory.
“Mr. Costa is in a meeting.”
Khloe kept her voice level.
Her right hand moved slowly toward the landline and the hidden alarm button beneath the desk.
“Leave the box or leave the floor.”
The courier gave a coarse laugh.
Then reached into his jacket.
Before Khloe could press the alarm, Vincent’s office doors opened behind her.
“Is there a problem out here?”
Vincent stepped into reception.
Frank and Dom stood behind him.
The courier immediately straightened.
His hand emerged empty.
He shoved the box onto Khloe’s desk.
“Compliments of Declan.”
“He said you dropped something at the railyard last night.”
Vincent stared at him.
Not the box.
The man.
“Tell Declan if he sends a dog into my house again, I’ll send it back in pieces.”
“Get in the elevator.”
The courier swallowed and backed away.
The doors closed.
Frank moved toward the package.
Vincent raised 1 hand.
“Don’t touch it.”
He approached Khloe’s desk.
Her hands were still on the keyboard.
They were shaking violently.
“Are you all right, Khloe?”
“Yes.”
The lie was obvious.
Vincent looked at the package.
Then removed a pocketknife.
He cut the string.
Used the blade to lift the lid.
Khloe braced for an explosion.
There was no bomb.
Inside, on bloodstained newspaper, lay a severed index finger wearing a heavy gold signet ring.
Khloe gasped and covered her mouth.
Nausea hit immediately.
Her chair rolled backward.
Frank swore.
Dom’s jaw tightened.
Vincent did not blink.
He stared at the finger with the detached expression of a man reading a badly prepared report.
“It’s Tommy’s ring,” Frank said.
“They caught him at the railyard.”
Vincent closed the knife.
“Dom, call a cleaning crew for the railyard.”
“Frank, get the cars ready.”
“We need to speak with Declan.”
The 2 men left.
Vincent looked back toward Khloe.
She was pale.
Her breathing was shallow.
Her eyes remained fixed on the box.
Vincent replaced the lid.
Then walked around the desk and placed himself between Khloe and the package.
“Breathe, Khloe.”
She inhaled unevenly.
“He had a key card.”
“Security let him up.”
“I know.”
Vincent’s eyes had turned cold.
“Security will be dealt with.”
He paused.
“I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Are you going to kill him?”
The question escaped before Khloe could stop it.
Vincent started to lift 1 hand toward her shoulder.
Then stopped.
He placed both hands into his pockets instead.
“I run a logistics company, Khloe.”
His voice was empty of emotion.
“And right now someone is disrupting my supply chain.”
“Take the rest of the day off.”
“Go home.”
“Lock your door.”
Vincent turned toward the private elevator.
Khloe remained alone in the pristine reception area.
The cardboard box sat on her desk.
The line between administrative assistant and accomplice had just disappeared.
“I don’t own anything like that.”
Khloe stood inside Vincent’s office clutching a sleek black garment bag against her chest like a shield.
It was Friday evening, 2 days after the severed finger arrived.
The atmosphere at Costa Logistics had been suffocating.
Frank and Dom returned late Wednesday night smelling of gunpowder and bleach.
Vincent spent most of the next 48 hours inside his office making calls that sounded more like ultimatums than conversations.
Now he stood near the window adjusting the cuffs of a midnight-blue tuxedo.
He looked exhausted.
Dangerous.
And unfairly striking.
“It’s a business dinner, Khloe.”
Vincent did not turn around.
“The mayor will be there.”
“The district attorney will be there.”
“I need someone who remembers every number, every permit, and every bribe I authorized without looking at a ledger.”
“That’s you.”
“I’m an assistant.”
Khloe tightened her grip on the garment bag.
“I take notes.”
“I don’t attend high-society galas.”
Vincent finally turned.
He leaned against the glass and crossed his arms.
“You’re my memory.”
“And right now the city council is trying to pull the harbor permits.”
“They think the O’Callahan situation means I’m weak.”
“I need to remind them I’m not.”
He nodded toward the garment bag.
“Go to the washroom.”
“Put the dress on.”
“We leave in 20 minutes.”
Khloe stared at him.
She wanted to quit.
She wanted to throw the bag at him and walk out.
But another truth stood behind the anger.
The O’Callahan crew knew her face now.
Walking outside Vincent’s protection no longer felt simple.
Khloe went into the executive washroom.
She opened the bag.
The dress was not flashy or cheap-looking.
It was a floor-length gown in deep emerald silk.
Elegant.
Understated.
And almost certainly more expensive than her car.
She put it on.
It fit perfectly.
Vincent had guessed her size with disturbing accuracy.
When she returned, Vincent was pouring scotch into a crystal glass.
He stopped.
The decanter remained suspended over the rim.
He did not whistle.
Did not compliment her.
He simply looked.
A slow, intense appraisal that made the silk feel suddenly heavier against Khloe’s skin.
Vincent put down the decanter.
Took a drink.
Cleared his throat.
“We’re late.”
The gala occupied the ballroom of the Grand Hotel.
Crystal chandeliers.
Champagne flutes.
Politicians who smiled while calculating each other’s weaknesses.
Khloe remained close to Vincent.
A quiet emerald shadow.
She watched him work.
May you like
It was unnervingly impressive.
He threatened no one openly.
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