Chapter 2 - The Inner Circle
The boardroom emptied within five minutes. Gregor was zip-tied and led toward the private elevators to be interrogated in the basement holding facility. Charles was given a train ticket and strict instructions to leave New York by noon.
Only Dominic and his trusted right-hand man, a scarred enforcer named Matteo, remained with me.
We moved from the sterile boardroom into Dominic’s private office—a sprawling, dark-wood sanctuary lined with leather-bound ledgers and historical New York maps. The atmosphere was thick with tension, but the hostility had shifted away from me. Now, it was directed inward.
"You mentioned my brother," Dominic said, pouring two glasses of amber liquid and pushing one toward me. I left it on the edge of the desk. "You said warehouse four. You said inventory."
"Your brother, Marco, isn't doing inventory tonight," I said, leaning against the edge of a mahogany bookshelf. "He’s meeting with Gregor’s second-in-command to sign over the port-service contracts voluntarily. That’s why Gregor was so confident tonight. He didn't need to threaten you with a fire. He already had your family’s signature."
Matteo cursed under his breath. "Marco wouldn't. He’s a Rossi."
"Marco has gambling debts in Atlantic City totaling four million dollars, Matteo," I said quietly. "I cleaned the private VIP suites at the Borgata last month. I empty trash cans, gentlemen. People throw away bank statements, promissory notes, and handwritten love letters to bookies. You’d be amazed at what executives toss into the recycling bin thinking nobody reads trash."
Dominic stared out the floor-to-ceiling windows, watching the rain streak the glass. His jaw tightened so hard the scar tissue whitened. For months, Dominic had suspected a leak within his own inner circle—someone was slowly draining Rossi Harbor Holdings from the inside, leaking route manifests to federal agents and rival syndicates. He had blamed external rivals like Gregor. He had blamed corrupt politicians.
He had never suspected his own blood.
"Why didn't you say anything earlier?" Dominic asked, his voice chillingly calm. "If you knew about Marco, why wait until a gun was on the table?"
"Because cleaners don't survive by giving unsolicited advice to wolves," I answered. "I came here to scrub blood off a carpet, pay for my mother’s medical bills, and go home. Telling a mafia boss that his brother is betraying him is a great way to end up wrapped in plastic inside that very same rug."
Dominic turned around. A strange, sharp expression crossed his face—not anger, but a grim, calculating respect.
"How much does your mother’s dialysis cost?"
"More than you’re paying me."
"Matteo," Dominic said without breaking eye contact with me. "Get the car. We’re going to pay my brother a visit. And Elena?"
May you like
"Yes?"
"Put the sponge down. You’re coming with us as Director of Corporate Communications."
