Chapter 1: The Anatomy of a Scandal
The spreadsheet didn't just expose Vinny "The Snake" Santoro; it opened a vein in the carefully manicured surface of Moretti Logistics. By Monday morning, the atmosphere in the TriBeCa office was not just tense; it was vibrating with the frequency of a coming storm.
Bridget sat at her desk, which had been moved directly outside Dante’s glass-walled office, trying to make herself look as small as possible. She was wearing the same clearance-rack blazer, though she had managed to repair the fraying sleeve with a bit of fabric glue. Every time someone walked past—Luca, the security detail, the various men in shark-skin suits—they looked at her with a mix of suspicion and morbid curiosity.
"You're a dead woman walking, Sullivan," Luca muttered as he dropped a stack of shipping manifests on her desk. He didn't sound threatening; he sounded annoyed, like a man forced to watch a train wreck in slow motion.
Bridget didn't look up from her screen. "If I go down, Luca, at least my filing system will be impeccable for my successor."
Inside the office, Dante Moretti was a silhouette of controlled fury. He had spent the last forty-eight hours dismantling Vinny’s operation. Vinny had been a fixture in the organization for a decade—a "made" man, a nephew of a rival family head, and a man who supposedly knew every skeleton in Dante’s closet.
The door to the office swung open, and Dante emerged. He didn't walk; he stalked. He stopped at Bridget’s desk and placed a heavy, leather-bound folder in front of her.
"Do you have a passport, Bridget?" he asked. His voice was the same low, melodic purr that usually preceded a funeral.
Bridget looked up, her heart doing a frantic tap-dance against her ribs. "I do. It’s expired, but it has a very flattering photo of me in a sun hat."
"Renew it. Today."
"Why?"
"Because you found the theft," Dante said, his pale eyes searching hers with a cold intensity. "And because the man you exposed has friends who don't appreciate your auditing skills. You are leaving the country tonight."
"Wait—what?" Bridget stood up, her sensible shoes squeaking against the polished marble. "I have a lease. I have a cat named Barnaby who requires specific expensive wet food. I cannot just flee the continent because I found a math error!"
"You aren't fleeing," Dante said, stepping closer, his imposing height casting a shadow over her small frame. "You are being relocated for your safety. My logistics chain extends to Milan, and I need someone there who can read a spreadsheet without being afraid of the consequences."
He didn't wait for her to argue. He turned on his heel and walked toward the private elevator. "Luca will handle your logistics. Don't worry about the cat. He’s already on the private jet."
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"You kidnapped my cat?" Bridget shouted, running after him. "That is an act of international feline aggression!"
Dante paused at the elevator doors, a faint, barely perceptible smirk touching his lips—the first sign of humanity she had seen in three weeks. "He seemed to appreciate the upgrade in transport. I suggest you do the same, Ms. Sullivan."
