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

“Wait!” Chloe stepped directly between Lorenzo and Matteo.

Lorenzo froze. No one—no one—ever stepped between Lorenzo Rossy and a potential traitor.

“Get out of the way, Miss Bennett,” Lorenzo growled, his hand reaching under his charcoal jacket.

“Use your brain for five seconds, Mr. Boss Man!” Chloe snapped, her voice ringing clear through the office. “If Matteo put the bug there, why would he leave his specific gun grease on it? He’s your head of security! If he wanted to kill you, he could have shot you in the back of the head six times this morning while you were drinking your engine-oil coffee!”

Matteo blinked, looking at Chloe like she was an angel descended from heaven in a tailored navy suit. “She’s... she’s right, boss. I’d never use Teflon grease on a bug. That stuff stinks like sulfur when it warms up.”

Lorenzo’s eyes flicked from Matteo to Chloe. Her small frame was completely blocking his line of sight to his lieutenant. She was breathing heavily, her brown eyes flashing with pure, stubborn defiance.

“Move, Chloe,” Lorenzo warned softly.

“No,” she said, crossing her arms. “Not until you look at the floor.”

Lorenzo looked down.

Near the base of the shattered lamp, among the shards of green glass, lay a tiny piece of torn fabric. It was white, soaked in a small, dried smear of dark brown blood.

Chloe knelt, pulled a pair of reading glasses from her pocket, and used the tip of her pink gel pen to carefully lift the fabric without touching it with her fingers.

“This isn't old grease,” Chloe said, examining the cloth. “It’s blood. And this white fabric is high-thread-count cotton. The previous secretary—the one who ran away four days ago. What was her name?”

“Elena,” Matteo offered quickly. “Elena Vance. The CFO’s niece.”

Chloe looked up at Lorenzo, her eyes wide with sudden realization. “The fourth secretary. The one who stumbled into the elevator with blood on her blouse. You all thought she got scared because she saw a gun, or because she was frail. But she didn't get scared. She found this bug, tried to pull it out, cut her hand on the brass housing, and bled on it.”

Lorenzo’s breath hitched. He stepped closer, leaning down to inspect the bloody scrap of white cotton.

“Elena Vance,” Lorenzo murmured, the pieces connecting in his mind with terrifying clarity. “Her uncle was stealing from the freight contracts. He used her to plant the wire so he’d know if I caught onto the accounting discrepancies.”

“And when she cut herself and panicked,” Chloe added, standing up, “she didn't run away because she was afraid of you. She ran away because she realized her uncle was using her to spy on the Sicilian Mafia, and if you found out, you’d kill her entire family.”

Silence stretched across the room.

Lorenzo slowly pulled his hand out from his jacket. He straightened his cuffs, his face returning to an unreadable mask, though his eyes remained fixed on Chloe with something dangerously close to awe.

Six women had walked through those doors. Six women had seen the danger, the shadows, the threat of violence, and fled.

Chloe Bennett had walked in with a broken shoe, found a two-hundred-thousand-dollar theft, located a wire, cleared his top lieutenant of treason, and solved a corporate espionage plot—all before 3:00 PM on her first day.

“Matteo,” Lorenzo said softly.

“Yes, boss?”

“Find Elena Vance. Bring her in safely. Do not harm her. But bring her uncle to the warehouse on 14th Street.”

“Understood.” Matteo turned to leave, but stopped at the door, throwing Chloe a deep, respectful nod. “Thanks, kid.”

When the heavy doors clicked shut, Lorenzo turned back to Chloe.

He walked around the stone desk until he was standing just inches from her. He was far taller, his shoulders broad enough to block out the grey Chicago skyline behind him. He smelled of expensive cologne, tobacco, and something dark and electric.

“You’re an unusual woman, Miss Bennett,” Lorenzo said, his voice lowering to a smooth, velvet whisper.

“I’m an accountant, Mr. Rossy,” Chloe replied, holding her ground even as her heart hammered against her ribs. “Numbers don't lie. People do.”

Lorenzo reached out. For a second, Chloe thought he was going to touch her face. Instead, his long fingers gently grasped the lapel of her new navy blazer, straightening it with meticulous precision.

“Your salary just doubled,” Lorenzo said. “And from now on, you do not take orders from Matteo, my captains, or my board of directors. You answer only to me.”

“Does that mean I can change the coffee?” Chloe asked, raising an eyebrow.