Chapter 3 - Shadows in the LedgerBy 3:00 a.m., the mansion had settled into an eerie, heavy silence.
Clara couldn't sleep. The guest suite was larger than her entire apartment, featuring a king-sized velvet bed, an en-suite marble bathroom, and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the dark, churning waters of the harbor.
Restless, she slipped out of the room and wandered down the wide, carpeted hallway. She was looking for the kitchen to find a glass of water, but instead, she found a sliver of light coming from beneath a heavy double door at the far end of the west wing.
Rico’s private study.
The door was slightly ajar. Clara approached it cautiously, intending to ask for a phone to call a cab, when she heard voices filtering through the gap.
"The shipments from Antwerp are delayed, Boss," a rough voice—definitely Dante—reported. "Customs at the port has been sniffing around the third-party shell companies. Someone inside the city council is leaking our import manifests."
Clara froze. Her hand, which had been raised to knock, hovered an inch from the wood.
"It's not the city council," Rico’s voice came, cold and analytical. "Councilman Rossi is in my pocket. This leak is coming from higher up. Someone is trying to squeeze us before the mayoral gala next month."
"Could it be the Marcone family?" Dante asked. "They've been making noise in Little Italy."
"No. Marcone is a blunt instrument. This has a corporate signature. It's clean, digital, and designed to freeze our liquidity without firing a single shot."
Clara swallowed hard. She knew she shouldn't be listening. This was organized crime 101—the kind of stuff that got people dropped into the East River inside concrete boots. She backed away slowly, her soft sneakers making no sound on the heavy rug.
As she turned to leave, her elbow brushed against a heavy bronze vase resting on a mahogany console table.
Clink.
The sound was microscopic, but in the dead silence of the hallway, it sounded like a gunshot.
The study door clicked open instantly.
Rico stood in the doorway. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket anymore; his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing taut, corded muscles and faint scars from old altercations. His eyes locked onto Clara instantly.
"Spying?" he asked, his voice dangerously low.
"I was looking for water," Clara said, lifting her chin to mask the sudden hammering of her heart. "Your estate is roughly the size of Rhode Island, Mr. Moretti. Excuse me for not bringing a compass."
Rico stared at her for a long moment. He didn't look angry; he looked tired. The harsh lines of his face softened slightly as he studied her.
"Did you hear what we were discussing?"
"I heard enough to know I want no part of it," Clara said sharply. "I am a hospitality management major working three jobs to pay for tuition. I don't care about Antwerp, I don't care about your shell companies, and I certainly don't want to know who is leaking your manifests. I just want to go home."
Rico stepped out into the hallway, closing the study door behind him. He closed the distance between them until Clara was forced to look up. Standing close, she could smell the faint scent of sandalwood, espresso, and expensive bourbon.
"You can't go home, Clara," Rico said quietly.
"Try me."
"It's not about keeping you prisoner," he said, his voice dropping into a register that felt almost intimate. "When you calmed Leo down tonight, you became a target. In my world, enemies don't fight me directly anymore. They look for leverage. If anyone in New York finds out that my son—and by extension, me—responded to a civilian like you... you wouldn't last forty-eight hours in Astoria."
May you like
Clara’s breath hitched. "You're saying I'm in danger because I handed a three-year-old a glass of milk?"
"I'm saying," Rico said, his gaze intense and unblinking, "that my world just collided with yours. And until I find out who is leaking my manifests and trying to dismantle my operation... you are safer inside these walls than anywhere else."
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