Chapter 7 - The Compliance Directives
By March, the Varro Security Tower had undergone a complete architectural and administrative purification. The heavy, dark-tinted glass windows that had kept the executive suite in a state of perpetual corporate twilight had been replaced by wide, clear panes that let the cold New England sun stream across the lobby floor.
Mia Callaway sat behind the director’s desk—the same mahogany desk where Mr. Hensley had once told her she tripped over air. She wore a tailored, dark navy blazer that fit her shoulders perfectly, her hair pulled back into a neat, professional knot, though a single, stubborn strand always seemed to escape near her left temple when she was reading code.
A folder sat in front of her—the new compliance handbook she had rewritten from scratch, reducing the agency’s incident-error rate by forty-two percent in her first sixty days on the job.
The door didn't click; it swung open with a slow, deliberate confidence that made her look up from her screen.
Matteo Duca walked into the office, carrying a cardboard tray with two large porcelain travel mugs and a paper bag that smelled faintly of fresh cinnamon rolls from the bakery near the ferry slip. He had discarded his tie, his white shirt open at the collar, his dark hair slightly long at the ends.
"You're late, Mr. Duca," Mia said, checking her watch—the new, digital utilitarian piece she had purchased with her double contract fee. "The maritime compliance review started ten minutes ago in the conference room."
"The compliance review can wait, Director," Matteo said, setting the tray down right on top of her revised handbook. He took a seat in the leather chair opposite her, leaning back with that familiar, annoying smirk that still made her heart skip a microscopic beat. "My father just finalized the acquisition of the Ferretti shipping lines in Rhode Island. The federal court signed the forfeiture order at midnight."
Mia took one of the mugs, the warm ceramic heating her fingers. "And Silvio?"
"He’s currently discussing the logic of state-line wire fraud with a grand jury in Providence," Matteo said, his expression softening into something genuine as he looked at her face. "He won't be visiting the Port Emery bluff anytime soon."
He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk, his dark eyes locking onto hers through the clear light of the window. "My father wants to know if you're attending the harbor dedication dinner on Saturday, Mia. He’s introducing the new security protocol to the transport board, and he wants the woman who destroyed his fountain to be standing next to the governor when the ribbon is cut."
Mia looked down at her coffee, a small, sudden smile appearing on her lips that she didn't try to hide behind her professional mask. "Only if Carlo is driving, Matteo. I don't think the governor’s limousine has the reinforced bumper capacity for my fish-tail turns."
"Carlo retired yesterday, Mia," Matteo whispered, his hand reaching across the compliance handbook to touch her fingers—a touch that was no longer an assignment, but something warm, steady, and entirely permanent. "He bought a fishing boat in Maine. He said his nerves couldn't handle another twenty-two-minute shift with you behind the wheel."
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Mia turned her hand over, her fingers catching his, her thumb tracing the blue compass rose on his wrist. "And you, Mr. Duca? How are your nerves?"
"My nerves are perfectly straight, Mia," Matteo said, his smile widening until it completely transformed his dark, aristocratic face into something beautiful. "As long as you’re the one holding the wheel."
