No Secretary Survived a Week With the Sicilian Mafia Boss Until the Clumsy Girl He Hired by Mistake Found the Secret That Could Destroy Him

By Monday morning, the fortieth floor of the Rossy Corporation was locked down. The smell of bleach and espresso remained, but a new scent had joined them: the ozone tang of high-alert security.

Chloe sat in Lorenzo’s office, surrounded by six glowing monitors. Her pink gel pen was tucked behind her ear.

“Costa isn’t sending hitmen,” Chloe announced, pulling up a series of banking records. “He’s sending lawyers. And shell companies.”

Lorenzo leaned over her chair, his hands resting on her shoulders. “Explain.”

“Costa knows he can’t outgun you in Chicago without drawing the feds. So, he’s trying to buy us out hostilely. Three of our largest legitimate suppliers—steel, concrete, and logistics—have abruptly canceled our contracts, citing 'instability'.”

Matteo paced the room. “We have shipments rotting at the docks. The union bosses are getting nervous. Costa’s men are passing envelopes to the foremen.”

“He’s squeezing our cash flow,” Chloe said, tapping her screen. “He wants to force us into bankruptcy so he can purchase our assets for pennies. But there’s a problem.”

“What problem?” Lorenzo asked.

“Costa’s an idiot.” Chloe spun her chair around. “He’s using a holding company based in the Cayman Islands to buy out our suppliers. But the routing numbers trace back to a private wealth fund in Manhattan. A fund that, according to the SEC, doesn't exist.”

Lorenzo’s eyes sharpened. “He’s using dirty money to buy legitimate contracts.”

“Massively dirty,” Chloe confirmed. “He’s mixing his extortion rackets with corporate buyouts. If the FBI sees these ledgers, Costa goes away for life. Not for murder, but for wire fraud, tax evasion, and RICO violations.”

“Can you prove it?” Matteo asked, stopping his pacing.

“I can,” Chloe said. “But I need access to the original routing data. It’s stored on a private server in Costa’s Chicago field office.”

Lorenzo’s expression turned to granite. “No. Absolutely not. We are not breaking into a mobster’s office.”

“We aren’t,” Chloe said brightly. “I sent a Trojan horse email disguised as an IRS audit notice to his head accountant an hour ago. If he clicks the attachment, I’ll have the server passwords.”