Chapter 2 - The Audit of the Damned
Working for Dante Marino was an exercise in militant bureaucracy. Every dollar smuggled, every bribe distributed, and every threat executed had to be accounted for in triplicate. Dante was a micromanager of the highest order, demanding rigorous audits that would make a Wall Street tax attorney weep.
The intercom buzzed again.
“Emily.”
“Yes, Mr. Marino?”
“Call maintenance. We need a new rug in here and someone to haul out the trash.”
“I’ll schedule it for after lunch,” she replied, making a neat check mark on her legal pad under the heading: Office Supplies & Waste Management.
“Do it now.”
“The cleaning crew doesn’t arrive until noon, Mr. Marino. I am not calling them twice on overtime rates just because you couldn't aim your frustrations away from the textiles.”
A brief, heavy silence hung over the intercom line—a pause so long that most people would have started hyperventilating. Then came a single, faint click. Dante’s version of an agreement.
Emily rubbed her temples, trying to soothe the migraine blooming behind her left eye. The missing three million dollars was a ticking clock. Federal IRS auditors were scheduled to arrive at their legitimate shipping front downtown at 2:00 p.m., and she needed Dante’s signature on a stack of falsified depreciation assets immediately, or the entire corporate facade would collapse.
She stood up, smoothed her sensible gray pencil skirt, picked up the thick manila folder, and marched toward the double oak doors.
She didn't knock. Knocking gave people time to prepare, and Emily believed in maximum administrative efficiency.
She pushed the doors open and walked straight into the private office.
The scene inside was a masterclass in mafia theatricality. The heavy velvet drapes were drawn tight against the gray Chicago rain, plunging the room into shadow. Tommy was completely out of sight, presumably shoved into the private antechamber or bathroom. Sal Genovese, a man who had ruled the South Side docks for two decades, was currently on his knees in the exact center of the room, weeping tears of pure, unadulterated terror. Two massive, heavily armed guards flanked him, their hands hovering near their shoulder holsters.
Dante stood by the rain-streaked window with his back to the room. A suppressed 9mm pistol hung loosely from his right hand, pointing down toward the floor, looking like a natural extension of his arm.
The air in the room was so thick with sheer, suffocating dread that breathing felt like inhaling crushed glass.
Sal choked out a sob, seeing Emily enter.
Dante slowly turned around. His face was a mask of cold, unyielding marble. His dark eyes locked onto Emily, empty of any human warmth.
Most human beings melted under that stare. They fell to their knees, apologized for breathing, or ran for the elevators.
Emily simply looked annoyed that he was standing so far away from his pen.
“Mr. Marino,” she said crisply, her heels clicking rhythmically against the hardwood floor as she bypassed Sal entirely, carefully stepping around his left knee to avoid scuffing her sensible flats. “I need your signature on the depreciation forms right now.”
Dante froze. He looked down at the gun in his hand, then back up at his secretary, as if trying to calculate whether she was a hallucination brought on by lack of sleep.
“I am in the middle of a personnel issue, Emily,” Dante said, his voice dropping into a low, rumbling bass that vibrated in the glass windows. It was the tone that preceded a massacre.
“I can see that,” Emily replied briskly, dropping the manila folder onto his reclaimed walnut desk and flipping it open to the signature page. She pulled a heavy Montblanc pen from the holder and extended it toward him. “But the IRS is downstairs in two hours. If I don't have these depreciation assets signed and filed, they are going to flag our dummy shell accounts, and you won't be able to make payroll on Friday. You know how cranky the enforcers get when direct deposit doesn't clear on time.”
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Sal stared at her in wide-eyed horror, his face smeared with snot and tears. “Emily! Please! Tell him! Tell him I didn't mean to skim the docks! Tell him I’ll pay it back!”
Emily turned her head slightly, offering Sal a look of profound irritation. “Sal, please do not speak to me. We are not friends, and your financial incompetence is currently giving me a stress-induced ulcer. Keep it down.”
