6
Liv
My hands grip the edge of the sink so tightly that my knuckles turn white.
There’s water still dripping down my face.
I blink hard, trying to shove the memories back where they belong.
My pale face and wide green eyes stare back at me in the mirror, way too intense for just a normal day at Elli Enterprises.
A knock on the bathroom door makes me jump.
“You okay in there?” someone calls through the door.
I take a shaky breath and let it out slowly, trying to calm my nerves.
“Yeah, just a minute,” I call out, sounding more confident than I actually am.
I splash cold water on my face one more time, forcing the memories back down where they belong.
When I step out of the bathroom, I nearly body-check Paul Bunyan’s long-lost cousin.
I mumble a quick, “Sorry,” and haul ass through the maze of desks like I’ve got somewhere important to be .
Every seat’s filled, everyone’s glued to their screens, phones ringing, fingers flying over keyboards like it’s a race.
No one looks up.
No one pays me much attention, just another temp receptionist in the endless parade of forgettable faces.
It’s exactly what I need—anonymity.
The temp receptionist role is a cover.
I still feel bad about Cindy, the regular receptionist here.
But she’ll be okay.
I just need another few days, then I’ll be out of here and she’ll be back at work.
I boot up the computer at my desk, my fingers flying over the keyboard as I log in.
I keep my expression neutral, but my eyes scan through files and emails, searching for any leads I can access.
The Commission, my mother’s death, my father’s disappearance—all pieces of a puzzle that’s consumed my life.
“Liv, hurry!” My mother’s voice rings in my ears as I sift through the stack of documents.
I can still feel her hand gripping mine, pulling me into a car with Clover behind the wheel, though I didn’t know who he was back then.
That memory lives rent-free in my mind; it was the day everything changed.
“Miss? Can you help me with this?” A voice breaks through my thoughts.
I look up to see a colleague holding a stack of papers similar to mine, with a hopeful look on her face .
“Of course,” I say, plastering a fake smile on my face.
I take the papers from her and process the documents as quickly as I can.
Each interaction, or mundane task, is a cover, a way to blend in while I dig deeper.
My mind is half on the task at hand, and half on the memories that won’t stay buried.
I can still hear my mother’s strained whisper and see the fear in her eyes.
I remember the first safe house we went to, surrounded by police officers and detectives who promised to keep us safe.
But in the end, they failed us, and failed my mother.
The rest of the day drags, each minute stretching longer than the last.
It doesn’t help that Mr.
Morelli stayed in his office today, without any visitors.
I keep glancing at the clock, counting down until I can finally slip away and get back to my search.
It’s almost 5:00 P.
M.
.
, and the office is finally thinning out enough for me to make my move.
I push my chair back, stretch like I’ve actually done something productive today, and casually make my way toward the bathroom.
It’s right next to the records room, which is just too damn convenient.
If I linger, no one’s gonna think twice.
Just a tired little receptionist on her way to pee, nothing to see here.
The second I step inside, the odor of musty paper and dust wafts around me.
The air is stale from old files that haven’t seen the light of day in years.
Rows of metal cabinets stretch ahead, flanked by towering shelves stacked high with file boxes.
It’s a goldmine, if I know where to look.
I make my way to the spot I left off yesterday, fingers brushing over faded labels as I scan through dates and names.
My pulse kicks up, and that familiar rush settles in as I dig deeper.
The thrum of the air conditioning is the only sound, broken only by the soft rustle of paper as I search, fast but careful.
I don’t have much time.
I never do.
The door creaks open, the sound barely registering before my body freezes on the spot.
My breath catches in my throat, and I clutch the file to my chest, as if that alone could make me disappear.
Footsteps.
I press myself behind the file cabinet with my heart hammering against my ribs.
It’s not like I’m forbidden from being in here, but suddenly, I’m panicking like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
The shuffle of movement stops, a pause stretching long enough to make my skin prickle.
Then…
click.
The door shuts again.
I exhale slowly, forcing my pulse to steady.
False alarm.
Turning back to the files, I move quicker now, but every crinkle of paper feels too loud, every breath too sharp.
My fingers sift through folders, my mind racing with possibilities.
There has to be something here.
A name.
A clue.
Anything.
I slide one file back and reach for another, then my fingertips graze across something that makes my stomach drop.
Commission Operations.
When I pull the file from the shelf, flipping it open, a lump forms in my throat.
Names.
Dates.
Transactions.
And then—her.
My mother’s name.
Tears threaten to fall as my eyes lock onto the page.
Then I turn it, and there’s a picture of her.
She’s smiling, her expression is warm, and she’s wearing the pearl necklace I gave her at our last Christmas together.
The memory feels like yesterday, knocking the breath from my lungs.
Why is she in here?
What the hell was she involved in?
Before my brain spirals, I hear footsteps and low voices whispering outside the door.
Panic grips me, snapping me back to the moment.
I shove the file back into place, closing the cabinet as softly as possible.
I force myself to breathe and listen.
When the sounds fade, I slip out of the records room, keeping my head down as I move down the hallway .
The office is nearly empty now, just a few late workers hunched over their computers.
I’ll come back tomorrow or maybe Saturday.
I can’t risk being caught.
It’ll ruin everything.
I make my way to my desk to grab my bag, forcing myself to act normal and pretend to be just another late worker, heading home for the night.
Outside these walls, my tiny apartment waits for me.
It’s a rundown place in the worst neighborhood Chicago has to offer, far from ideal.
But it’s close to Cindy’s.
That matters more.
The poor woman still thinks she has the flu.
She doesn’t.
She has me.
The puzzle pieces are slowly coming together, but there’s still so much I don’t know.
At least now, I can rule out the Morelli’s.
That’s something.
The moment my desk comes into view, my heart stops.
Don Antonio and Don Sebastiano sit in the chairs to the left, the ones meant for visitors waiting to see the Morellis.
But it’s not them that makes my stomach drop.
It’s him.
Alessandro Gualtiero.
Sitting in my chair, looking like he owns the damn place.
His crystal-blue eyes lock onto mine, and a slow, sinister grin stretches across his lips .
Shit.
I’m busted.
Completely and utterly fucked.
Gualtiero stands, and Jesus Christ, the man has to be at least ’5”.
Not that I’m about to stand here and measure.
My body moves before my brain fully catches up.
I spin on my heel and bolt toward the emergency exit, my pulse slamming against my ribs.
No way in hell am I waiting around to find out what he has planned for me.
I bolt, sprinting straight into the freight elevator and jamming the ‘close’ button over and over like the harder I press it, the faster it’ll move.
Panic claws up my throat as I catch sight of a wall of pissed-off, overgrown men charging straight at the door.
It closes just in time, barely a second before they reach it.
I’m watching the floor numbers tick by when the elevator suddenly jerks to a stop on the fifth.
My heart’s beating like it’s trying to break out of my chest.
I hold my breath, bracing myself for whoever’s on the other side.
But screw it, I’m not about to get cornered.
The second the doors slide open, I take off at full speed.
I damn near slam straight through some poor guy trying to step inside, but I don’t stop to ask if he’s ok.
I dash toward the stairwell, slamming the door open so hard it nearly bounces off the wall, and start flying down the steps, two at a time.
The stairwell fills with the sounds of my footsteps, and behind me sounds like a damn herd of elephants.
I glance back only to see more gargantuans charging after me, hot on my heels.
My lungs are on fire, and my legs are screaming at me, but I can’t stop now.
I need to get the fuck out of here.
Adrenaline kicks in at an all-time high, and I push harder, shoving through the stairwell door and bursting into the alleyway behind Elli Enterprises.
I step back, trying to catch my breath, and slam straight into a wall of muscle.
It knocks the air out of me, and before I can even think about screaming, a hand clamps over my mouth.
I squirm and try to break free, fighting against the tough grip, but full-on panicking on the inside.
I can’t turn to see who it is, but I don’t need to.
It’s him.
Or one of his men.
“Calm down, will you?” the voice hisses in my ear.
“Or I will hurt you.”
I freeze.
Every muscle in my body locks up, and my lungs are barely able to pull in air.
The hand over my mouth loosens just enough for me to speak, but I’m still pinned tight against the human boulder behind me .
“Who the hell are you?” I manage to hiss.
“Someone who’d rather not have you dead in an alley,” he replies dryly.
“And you might want to save your breath for explaining yourself.”
I twist, desperately trying to get a glimpse of my captor.
“I can handle myself.”
“Sure,” he snorts.
“That’s why you were running from the Don like your life depends on it. And well, maybe it does.”
I want to argue with the lumberjack sporting a man bun and snap back with something sharp, but before I can even process what’s happening, I’m being dragged back into the building.
Double shit.
I stumble as I’m pulled through the doorway, my breath catching in my throat—and then I see him.
Alessandro Gualtiero.
The guy takes the term terrifying to a whole new level.
Holy crap, he seems so much bigger, up close.
His broad shoulders practically block out everything behind him, and his sharp jawline looks like it was carved specifically to terrify people.
His blue eyes darken, pinning me in place.
I can feel them scanning me like he’s trying to figure me out, deciding if I’m worth the trouble .
I swallow hard.
Spoiler alert: I’m not going down without a fight.
“You think you can run from me?” he growls.
His brows pull together, so tight they’re practically forming a unibrow of rage.
If this were a cartoon, there’d be actual steam shooting out of his ears.
His fists clench like he’s seconds away from punching a wall, or me.
My brain screams at me to do something, anything, but my body refuses to cooperate, frozen by his force.
Breathe, Liv.
Act unfazed.
My lips twitch, like they want to throw out some sassy remark, but my brain is still buffering.
Instead, I tilt my head slightly, like I’m sizing him up.
When really, I’m just stalling, desperately trying to figure out how the hell I’m getting out of this.