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

Lorenzo Rossy stared at the woman standing in front of his desk. Her fist was still tucked behind her back, hiding a tampon like it was classified government intelligence. Rainwater dripped from her thrift-store blazer onto his polished dark floor, making a small, rhythmic tap-tap-tap in the silent room.

“I didn’t yell at her,” Lorenzo said softly, his voice cutting through the quiet like a cold blade. “My associate was cleaning a firearm in the breakroom. She found the visual alarming.”

Chloe didn’t blink. She tilted her head, her wet brown hair clinging to her cheek. “Was the firearm loaded?”

“No.”

“Was he pointing it at her?”

“No.”

“Then she was overreacting,” Chloe said plainly, taking her hand out from behind her back and dropping the tampon back into her ruined tote bag. “In my neighborhood, if someone is cleaning a gun point-down at a table, it usually just means it’s Tuesday. Now, are you going to let me clean up this granola bar, or are we going to discuss my health insurance?”

Matteo, still standing near the heavy double doors, let out a sharp sound that was dangerously close to a laugh. Lorenzo threw him a dark look, and the lieutenant instantly smoothed his face back into stone.

“You have three minutes, Miss Bennett,” Lorenzo said, leaning back in his chair. “Explain why I shouldn't have my security escort you out of the building right now.”

Chloe didn't hesitate. She limped forward on her lopsided shoes, reached across the desk, and snatched the shipping contract that was currently wearing a smear of crushed oats and honey. She smoothed it out with her palm, her eyes rapidly scanning the dense columns of numbers.

Her brow furrowed. Her mouth pulled into a tight line.

“Because,” Chloe said, pulling a bright pink gel pen from her bag and uncapping it with her teeth, “your CFO doesn't know how to multiply currency conversions, or he’s actively stealing from you.”

Lorenzo’s dark eyes narrowed. “Watch your tongue.”

“I’m watching the math, Mr. Rossy,” Chloe shot back, her pink pen hovering over the paper. “Look at page three. Line eighteen. The freight shipment from Palermo is listed at eighty-four thousand Euros. The conversion rate applied on the ledger is 1.18 USD per Euro. But down here on line twenty-four, the port fees are calculated using a conversion rate of 1.42. That’s a twenty-four-cent variance per unit across ten thousand crates.”

She circled the numbers with three thick, neon-pink loops and slammed the paper back down onto the black stone desk.

“Whoever prepared this ledger just inflated your shipping expenses by two hundred and twelve thousand dollars. Either your accountant has a severe learning disability, or someone is taking a very quiet vacation to the Bahamas on your dime.”

Silence fell over the fortieth floor.

Lorenzo looked down at the bright pink circles marring his crisp white contract. He pulled the document toward him, his sharp eyes calculating the figures in seconds. The math was indisputable. He had personally reviewed that contract two hours ago and missed it because he was focused on the security breach downstairs.

He looked up at Chloe. She was shivering, wet, wearing two different heights of footwear, and staring at him like she was waiting for him to try her.

“Matteo,” Lorenzo said without looking away from Chloe.

“Yeah, boss?”

“Call the legal department. Tell them Mr. Vance is relieved of his duties as Senior Financial Officer. Have him brought to the basement for a conversation.”

“On it.”

“And Matteo?”

“Boss?”

Lorenzo reached into his desk drawer, pulled out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills, and tossed them across the stone surface. They landed right next to Chloe’s crushed granola bar.

“Take Miss Bennett down to the retail concourse. Get her a coat that doesn't smell like the Chicago River, a pair of shoes that are the same height, and a bag that doesn't spill its contents on my furniture.”

Chloe stared at the money, then at Lorenzo. “Is this an advance on my salary?”

“That depends,” Lorenzo said, his voice dropping an octave, rich and dangerous. “Can you start right now?”

Chloe pulled her broken heel off, threw it into the trash can beside his desk, and stood on her toes to even herself out.

“Give me twenty minutes to buy shoes, Mr. Rossy. And I’m going to need a red pen. Pink doesn't look professional enough when I’m firing your executives.”