Devil’s Secret

Chapter 1

BEA

Three hundred and forty-three dollars.

That’s what stands between me and complete financial collapse. I checked my account this morning.

The seventeen cents feels like a cruel joke.

I adjust my blouse in the elevator mirror—the nicest one I own, bought at a thrift store two years ago for a job interview I didn’t get.

The fabric is starting to pill at the elbows.

I’ve been hiding it by keeping my arms close to my body, which probably makes me look like a nervous penguin, but it’s better than looking poor.

Though I’m pretty sure everyone here already knows.

D’Amico it’s restricted.

And the assistants who go up? They come back quiet, like they’ve decided silence is safer.

The elevator climbs in silence.

There’s a moment where I could speak. Something simple, harmless. I miss it completely, too busy studying the floor numbers.

Ding.

Sixth floor. My stop.

I practically throw myself through the doors, and I don’t look back. I can feel his gaze on me for just a moment—or maybe I’m imagining it—before the elevator continues its ascent.

The morning crawls by. I transfer calls, sign for packages, smile at people who don’t smile back. Standard receptionist stuff. I’m getting the hang of it, finding a rhythm, almost starting to relax—

“Mendez.”

I glance up to find Margaret already at my desk, carrying a manila folder and the kind of expression usually reserved for bad news.

“Marcy from filing called in sick,” she says, setting the folder down in front of me. “I need this delivered upstairs.”

I flip it open just enough to catch the label—something about a subpoena, dense with legal terms I don’t fully understand.

“Upstairs… where exactly?”

She gives me a look. “Executive floor.”

I hesitate. “You mean the top floor?”

“Is there another executive floor I’m not aware of?” Margaret asks. “Mr. Castellano’s office. Drop it on his assistant’s desk. Don’t make eye contact. Don’t speak unless spoken to. Just drop it and leave.”

“But I don’t have access—”

“The elevator will take you up. I’ve cleared it.”

I take the folder and head for the elevator, my heels clicking against the marble like a countdown.

The ride up feels longer than it should. Six floors, but each one stretches into eternity. I watch the numbers climb and try to remember how to breathe.

Don’t make eye contact. Don’t speak. Drop it and leave.

Simple enough. I can do simple.

Ding.

The doors part, and the atmosphere shifts with them.

Sound dulls. Light softens. Even the air feels curated—leather, polish, something expensive and deliberate. The carpet absorbs the impact of my steps, leaving me moving through the space almost noiselessly.

No one waits at reception.

I hesitate, then check the folder. Castellano.

Right. End of the hall.

I move forward, eyes flicking over each nameplate as I pass, counting doors, tracking distance—

—and then I hear it.

A voice, drifting from an office to my left. The door isn’t fully closed but slightly ajar, just enough for the words to slip into the hallway.

“—talks too much. That’s the problem.”

I slow down. Just keep walking. This is none of my business.

But my feet have other plans.

“Handle it before the deposition.”

The voice stops me completely. There’s nothing raised or urgent about it—if anything, it’s too calm, stripped of anything human.

“Make it look like an accident. He has a boat. Use that.”

Cold settles under my skin. The words don’t make sense at first—not in this context, not in this building—until they do, all at once, in the worst possible way.

I edge closer to the door before I can stop myself, telling myself I just need to confirm what I’m hearing. That there’s a reasonable explanation. That I can report it, fix it, hand it off to someone who knows what to do.

Through the narrow gap, I see him.

The man from the elevator.

He stands by the window, phone pressed to his ear, the city stretching out behind him in dull gray.

The nameplate on the door catches my eye: Raffaele D’Amico, Senior Partner.

D’Amico. As in, the name on the building.

Oh God.

His reflection shifts in the window glass.

His eyes meet mine.

I freeze. A deer in headlights. A mouse under a hawk’s shadow.

“I’ll call you back.” He hangs up.

I run.

My heels are too loud on the carpet, my breath too ragged in my throat. The elevator—I just need to reach the elevator. My finger jabs the button once, twice, three times.

Come on, come on, come on—

The doors slide open. I stumble inside, hit the button for the sixth floor, press myself against the back wall like the metal might somehow protect me.

The doors start to close.

A hand catches them.

He strolls into the elevator like he has all the time in the world. The doors close behind him, sealing us in together.

Six floors. Just the two of us.

“Miss...?”

The tone is polite. Like we’re meeting at a cocktail party.

“Mendez.” My name is a squeak. I clear my throat, try again. “Bea Mendez. I didn’t hear anything. I was just delivering a file—the subpoena, for Mr. Castellano—Marcy’s sick, so I had to—”

“You heard everything.”

Four words. Delivered without inflection.

“I won’t tell anyone.” I’m babbling now. “I don’t even know what I heard. Something about a boat? Lots of people have boats. It’s probably nothing. I’m sure it’s nothing. I’ll just go back to my desk and forget this ever—”

“Stop talking.”

I stop.

He studies me the way a scientist might study a specimen. Clinical. Detached. Deciding whether I’m worth keeping or discarding.

“You have two choices.” He hasn’t raised his voice. He doesn’t need to. His presence fills the entire elevator, pressing against me like a physical weight. “Unemployment and a tragic accident. Or a promotion.”

My brain stalls.

“P-promotion?”

I just stand there, frozen, while my brain screams every warning it has. This is crazy. He’s crazy. I should be clawing for the emergency stop, yelling, anything.

But my mind is already running the numbers.

Rent hits Friday—four hundred bucks I don’t have.

Abuela’s facility wants another two grand this month, and their patience is wearing thin after too many late-payment sob stories.

Student loans. Maxed-out credit cards. That sad little savings balance staring back at me: $343.17 and a whole lot of silence.

Dead girls don’t pay bills.

Dead girls don’t keep their grandmothers out of the street.

So, the words slips out before I can swallow them.

“Promotion sounds good.”

“Smart choice.”

The elevator jerks to a stop.

Sixth floor.

Relief hits fast. The doors begin to open—

—and his hand moves.

A single press.

The top floor.

The doors slide shut again before I can react, closing on my chance at freedom.

The elevator tilts into ascent again, the change slight but undeniable. We’re going back up.

“Wait—”

“Your desk,” he says, not even glancing at me, “is outside my office.”

The numbers climb. Seven. Eight. Nine.

Each one feels like a countdown in reverse.

I’m going back. Back to that floor. Back to him.

Ding.

He gestures for me to step out first. Polite. Measured. Completely insane, considering the circumstances.

I move anyway, legs unsteady as I step onto the executive floor.

It doesn’t feel the same.

“You’ll handle my schedule. My correspondence. Anything else I require.”

He’s already walking. I follow, because stopping doesn’t feel like an option.

“You don’t speak about what you see or hear. You don’t ask questions. You do your job”—a slight pause—”and you stay alive.”

Stay alive.

He says it like it belongs on a benefits package. Salary, insurance, continued existence.

“Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

We reach his office. He opens the door, pauses, looks back at me.

“One more thing, Miss Mendez.”

“Yes?”

“The file you were delivering.” He holds out his hand. “I’ll take it.”

I look down. The manila folder is still in my grip, crumpled now from how hard I’ve been clutching it.

I hand it over.

He glances at the folder, then tosses it onto a nearby table. “Castellano can wait. You have work to do.”

I hesitate. “What about Margaret? She’s my supervisor.”

“Fire her if you want.”

And just like that, he’s gone—disappearing into his office, leaving me alone in the hallway of what is apparently my new life.

I just stand there, options lining up faster than I can process them—none of which involve staying.

I sit down anyway.

There’s a computer, a phone, a stack of papers that need filing. Normal office things. Like I’m a normal assistant with a normal job.

I know one thing for certain: This is either the worst decision I’ve ever made, or the only one that might keep me alive long enough to make another.

I guess I’ll find out which.