Chapter 2 - “Did you demand one of Rockford Jones’s daughters as payment for fifteen million dollars?”
Mateo’s amusement disappeared.
“No.”
I stopped.
“What?”
“No.”
“My father said—”
“I know what your father said.”
“Then explain.”
Mateo leaned back.
“I told Rockford that the missing money was not the only thing I was concerned about.”
“What else?”
“Someone inside Jones Financial has been moving funds through companies connected to my organization without authorization.”
I stared.
“How much?”
“Fifteen million discovered. Potentially more.”
“And the marriage?”
“I said I wanted a permanent alliance if I was going to keep doing business with Jones Financial while the investigation continued.”
“That sounds suspiciously like marriage.”
“I suggested a family alliance.”
“Through Chloe.”
“I was told Chloe handled philanthropic and political relationships for the Jones family.”
“She plans charity dinners.”
“So I discovered.”
I almost smiled.
“Did you ask to marry her?”
“No.”
“Did you ask for a daughter?”
“No.”
My skin went cold.
“What exactly did you say?”
Mateo’s expression hardened.
“I said, ‘If Rockford wants me to trust his family, then perhaps one of his daughters should sit across from me and explain why I shouldn’t pull every Moretti account tomorrow morning.’”
I stared.
“That was it?”
“That was it.”
“And my father interpreted that as marriage.”
“Apparently.”
“Why didn’t you correct him?”
“I tried.”
“When?”
“Yesterday.”
“What happened?”
“He asked whether I would consider Chloe as part of a formal family arrangement.”
“And?”
“I told him I don’t negotiate marriages.”
I almost laughed.
Not because it was funny.
Because the alternative was crying.
“My family tried to sacrifice me to a demand you never made.”
Mateo watched me.
“Yes.”
I looked down at my coffee.
The cup shook slightly.
I put it down.
For twenty-four hours, I had been preparing myself to negotiate my own humanity with a mafia boss.
The mafia boss was apparently the only person who had not participated in the negotiation.
Mateo spoke quietly.
“You can leave.”
I looked up.
“What?”
“You’re not obligated to stay here.”
“That’s all?”
“What were you expecting?”
“A contract.”
“No.”
“A threat.”
“No.”
“A proposal.”
His mouth twitched.
“We’ve known each other seven minutes.”
“My family seemed to think efficiency was important.”
That almost made him smile again.
Then his expression softened.
“Adelaide.”
Nobody in my family said my name that gently.
“You don’t owe me anything because your father misunderstood me.”
I stared at him.
“Then why did you agree to meet me?”
“Because you asked.”
“How did you know that?”
“Your father made it clear this morning that the meeting was your decision.”
That was at least something.
I leaned back.
“Then I have a question.”
“Ask.”
“Why is fifteen million dollars missing?”
His eyes sharpened.
“I was hoping you might tell me.”
“Why me?”
“Because your name appears in the audit trail.”
Everything inside me stopped.
“What?”
Mateo reached toward the table.
A folder lay there.
I had not noticed it.
He slid it toward me.
“Open it.”
I did.
Transaction logs.
Authorization records.
Internal account numbers.
My employee credentials.
My digital approval token.
Transfers totaling $15,040,000.
I read the dates.
My mouth went dry.
“This is impossible.”
“Why?”
“I wasn’t authorized on Atlantic Strategic Holdings when these transfers happened.”
“I know.”
I looked up.
“You know?”
“You were removed February third.”
“Yes.”
“First transfer was February nineteenth.”
“Then somebody used archived credentials.”
“That’s my conclusion.”
I scanned the pages.
“Who had access to my authentication token?”
“You tell me.”
“IT security.”
“Anyone else?”
“My father, technically.”
“Evelyn?”
“Possibly through administrative override.”
“Martin Keller?”
“Yes.”
I kept reading.
Then stopped.
One receiving entity.
Bellweather Maritime Consulting LLC.
My pulse changed.
Mateo noticed.
“What?”
“I know this company.”
“How?”
“I flagged it.”
“When?”
“January.”
His expression became still.
“Before you were removed.”
“Yes.”
I remembered the report.
Bellweather had billed consulting fees to three logistics-related funds.
Invoices vague.
Addresses inconsistent.
Beneficial ownership obscured.
I had written a compliance memorandum.
Six pages.
I sent it to Evelyn.
She replied two days later.
Reviewed. No further action required.
A week later, I was transferred out of institutional accounts.
I looked at Mateo.
“I need access to my work email.”
“Can you get it?”
“Probably not remotely anymore.”
“Do you remember the report?”
“Most of it.”
“Tell me.”
So I did.
For forty minutes.
Mateo barely interrupted.
He asked precise questions.
Dates.
Amounts.
Corporate structures.
Names.
Not once did he look bored.
When I finished, he said:
“You’re a forensic accountant.”
“Technically.”
“Why does your father have you opening mail?”
I blinked.
“What?”
“You were carrying mail when you walked into the drawing room last night.”
I stared.
“How do you know that?”
“Rockford told me.”
“Why?”
“I asked how you became involved.”
“You ask a lot of questions.”
“So do you.”
Fair.
“My stepmother removed me from institutional work.”
“Why?”
“She said I wasn’t good with clients.”
“Are you?”
“No.”
Mateo smiled.
“At least you’re honest.”
“I don’t enjoy pretending someone’s golf game is interesting.”
“Reasonable.”
“I’m better with numbers.”
“I noticed.”
He stood.
I instinctively tensed.
He noticed that too.
His movements slowed.
“I’m getting another file.”
I hated that he had seen me flinch.
He did not comment.
He crossed to the desk and returned with a second folder.
“These are companies that received funds.”
I opened it.
For the next two hours, I forgot to be afraid of Mateo Moretti.
Numbers did that for me.
Numbers didn’t care about scars.
They didn’t care whether Chloe looked better in photographs.
They didn’t care who was popular at charity dinners.
Numbers only cared whether they reconciled.
These did not.
By noon, I had identified three duplicate invoices.
By one, five circular transfers.
By one thirty, a pattern.
“Someone is layering the money.”
Mateo stood behind the opposite chair, careful not to crowd me.
“Explain.”
“The fifteen million wasn’t stolen in one transaction. It was broken across vendors, moved through consulting agreements, then partially returned through investment distributions.”
“To whom?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.”
I looked at him.
“But I need internal Jones records.”
He nodded.
“I can ask Rockford.”
“No.”
That came too quickly.
Mateo studied me.
“Why?”
“Because if someone inside Jones Financial is responsible, telling them exactly what we’re examining gives them time to clean it.”
“We?”
I looked down.
I had said it naturally.
“I can leave if you’d prefer.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you just volunteered to investigate the people who sent you here.”
I sat back.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I thought about Chloe’s laughter.
Evelyn’s champagne.
Dad’s silence.
Then the fraudulent records bearing my name.
“Because somebody used me twice.”
Mateo waited.
“First my credentials.”
I looked at him.
“Then my family.”
Something cold entered his expression.
Not toward me.
“Then let’s find out who.”
I did not marry Mateo Moretti that day.
I did not move into his estate.
I checked into the hotel I had booked.
Mateo did not argue.
He offered security.
I refused.
He said:
“Fine.”
Then sent Sofia to drive me anyway.
I objected.
Sofia said:
“I’m a driver, not security.”
“There are two men following us.”
“They’re terrible conversationalists. Ignore them.”
I almost laughed.
At the hotel, Mateo called once.
“Your father has called me four times.”
“What does he want?”
“To know whether I’ve accepted you.”
Heat rushed into my face.
“What did you say?”
“That you’re not a parcel.”
I closed my eyes.
“Thank you.”
“He didn’t appreciate it.”
“I do.”
There was a pause.
Then Mateo said:
“Adelaide.”
“Yes?”
“Your father believes you’re staying at my estate.”
“I know.”
“Do you want me to correct him?”
I thought.
“No.”
Mateo was silent.
“Why?”
“Because I want to see what they do if they think I’m not coming home.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“From the feared mafia boss?”
“From families.”
That answer stayed with me.
By the following afternoon, I knew somebody was watching my Jones Financial account.
Not my bank account.
My employee account.
Three failed login attempts appeared from the corporate network after midnight.
I called Mateo.
He answered immediately.
“Where are you?”
“Hotel.”
“Stay there.”
“Why?”
“Because you don’t start conversations with me by saying where you are unless something happened.”
Annoyingly observant.
I explained.
He was quiet.
Then:
“I’ll send someone.”
“No.”
“Adelaide.”
“I need access to the office.”
“No.”
“You don’t get to say no.”
“You’re right.”
That surprised me.
He corrected himself.
“I strongly recommend you don’t go alone.”
“Better.”
“I’ll come.”
“You?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because if someone is using your identity to steal my money, we have overlapping interests.”
“You make friendship sound very romantic.”
“Friendship?”
I froze.
Mateo laughed quietly.
“Interesting.”
“Forget I said that.”
“No.”
I hung up.
He arrived twenty minutes later.
Jones Financial occupied six floors of a glass tower in Back Bay.
I entered through the lobby at 7:10 p.m.
Mateo walked beside me.
People noticed him.
Of course they did.
Receptionist.
Security.
Two junior analysts.
A managing director who nearly walked into a planter.
Mateo seemed oblivious.
Or accustomed.
At the elevator, I whispered:
“They’re terrified of you.”
“I know.”
“You said that like the weather.”
“How should I say it?”
“Maybe with concern.”
“I am concerned.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
He looked at me.
“Fear makes people unreliable.”
That was not the answer I expected.
The elevator opened.
We went upstairs.
My old office had been reassigned.
My current office was at the end of the compliance corridor.
Windowless.
Mateo stood in the doorway.
“This is where they put you?”
“Yes.”
“You have two degrees.”
“Three.”
He looked at me.
I shrugged.
“Didn’t seem relevant.”
“It seems relevant.”
I sat at my computer.
My credentials still worked.
Interesting.
I accessed archived mail.
January.
Bellweather.
There.
My report.
I opened it.
Mateo read over my shoulder from a respectful distance.
At the bottom:
TO: Evelyn Jones
CC: Martin Keller
My stomach tightened.
“I forgot Martin was copied.”
Mateo’s expression changed.
“Your CFO.”
“Yes.”
I opened Evelyn’s response.
Reviewed with MK. No further action required. Reassign Adelaide from JASH effective February 3.
Mateo read it twice.
“MK.”
“Martin Keller.”
“Maybe.”
I looked at him.
“You think it means someone else?”
May you like
“I think assumptions are expensive.”
Fair.
