Chapter 3
BEA
It’s been three days since I started working for Raffaele D’Amico.
Seventy-two hours of answering phones, organizing files, and pretending not to notice the things I definitely notice.
And there’s a lot to notice.
Just this morning, I’ve handled documents that would probably make a federal prosecutor’s entire career.
Money transfers with more zeros than I bothered counting.
Names pulled straight from headlines—politicians, businessmen, celebrities.
Contracts tied to shell companies that don’t seem to exist anywhere outside of carefully formatted paperwork.
If anyone ever followed the trail in this office, it wouldn’t just be one case. It would be half the city.
And I’m the one sorting it into labeled folders.
I finish the latest batch—Martinez, offshore, Q3—and slide them into the cabinet. The drawer closes with a quiet click, like that somehow makes it all less real.
It doesn’t.
The question comes back, same as it does every night. What am I still doing here?
I lie in bed staring at the ceiling, running through the same options I’ve already exhausted.
Leave. Disappear. Start over somewhere else.
Except “somewhere else” requires money I don’t have. Three hundred forty-three dollars—four hundred twelve now, technically, after my first partial paycheck. Not exactly enough to reinvent my life.
And even if it were, there’s the other problem.
I know too much.
That wasn’t a suggestion. It was a condition.
The alternative—unfortunate, explainable—is still on the table. Just delayed. Dependent on whether I continue being useful.
So, I stay useful.
Because I’d like to stay alive.
It’s not exactly a philosophy. More like a routine at this point—one I repeat while brushing my teeth, while filing documents, while trying not to think too hard about the way Raffaele looks at me.
Or the fact that I notice it.
“Mendez.”
I turn.
He’s standing in the doorway of his office, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. It’s the most casual I’ve seen him—and somehow that makes him more intimidating.
“I have a task for you.”
The briefcase is leather. Heavier than it should be for what’s supposedly just paperwork.
I don’t let myself think about that too much.
Raffaele’s instructions were clear—don’t open it, don’t ask questions. There wasn’t much room for interpretation.
The restaurant is only three blocks away. Close enough to walk, which would be fine if I weren’t hyper-aware of every step I take. The handle presses into my palm, my grip tightening the longer I carry it. My heels strike the pavement in a rhythm that feels like it’s drawing attention.
It isn’t.
No one’s looking at me. No one cares.
Still, I adjust my hold on the briefcase, trying to look like this is normal. Like I do this every day.
The place isn’t hard to find. Old-school Italian. The green awning has lost most of its color; the neon sign hums faintly above it. The windows are dark, reflective, impossible to see through.
I step inside.
Red checkered tablecloths. Candles melted into old wine bottles. Sinatra playing somewhere overhead.
A hostess starts toward me, but I spot him before she can say anything.
Back corner. Silver hair. Two men at his sides—not obviously armed, but not subtle either. He eats at an unhurried pace, cutting into his food like time doesn’t apply to him.
I head straight for the table. The bodyguards notice me immediately, tracking the movement, but neither of them moves to stop me.
“I’m here from D’Amico & Associates—”
“I know who you’re from.”
He doesn’t look up. Just gestures to the chair across from him with his fork.
“Sit. Have coffee.”
“I should get back—”
“Sit.”
That settles it.
I sit.
The briefcase goes under the table, tucked close to my feet. He’s still focused on his plate, cutting another piece with the same deliberate care.
So this is Vincenzo Conti.
I expected something… bigger. More obvious. Security everywhere. A presence you could feel before you saw it.
Instead, he looks like someone who could disappear into a crowd without anyone noticing. Well-dressed, unremarkable—if you ignore the two men flanking him and the fact that everyone in the room is pretending not to look at him.
He glances up, catching me mid-assessment.
“Expecting something else?”
“No, sir.”
“Something grander, maybe.” He waves his fork lightly. “More guns. A little ceremony. Some idiot kissing my ring.” There’s a faint smile.
“That’s movie bullshit. Real power doesn’t need props.” He shrugs. “I’m just an old man who likes quiet lunches.”
He sets his utensils aside and looks at me properly now.
Late fifties, maybe early sixties. Hard to place exactly. His features carry a worn quality—experience, more than age—but his eyes are sharp. Clear. Just a little amused.
Like he’s already made up his mind about me.
“So,” he says. “You’re Raffaele’s new girl.”
“Assistant. I’m his assistant.”
“Mmm.”
He picks up his espresso, takes a sip, and immediately grimaces.
“Christ. Still terrible.” He sets it down. “Thirty years I’ve been coming here, and they still can’t make a decent cup.”
I don’t respond. It doesn’t feel like a question.
“How’s that going?” he asks instead. “Working for him.”
“Fine.”
“Fine. Careful answer.”
His gaze lingers on me for a second longer than necessary.
“Raffaele likes careful,” he adds. “Means you might last longer than the others.”
The others.
I don’t ask what he means, and he doesn’t offer anything further. Just watches me, that same faintly amused look in his eyes, like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort.
Behind him, the two men haven’t moved.
“You know what I like about this place?” he asks suddenly. “Nobody bothers me. No calls, no problems. Just bad coffee and food that’s barely worth the plate it’s on. Sometimes that’s enough.
“Tell Raffaele the coffee here is still terrible. And that Nico wants to talk to him about Moreno—the son, not the father. That one’s a son of a bitch. Sooner rather than later.”
He lifts the cup, studies it like it personally offended him.
“Before he asks—yes, I know I keep coming back anyway. Old habits.”
I nod, committing it to memory. “Who’s Nico?”
“My son. You’ll meet him eventually.”
The pause that follows communicates more than the words.
He lifts a hand in dismissal.
I start to stand, reaching for the briefcase—then stop, remembering. I slide it across the floor instead, toward him. He doesn’t look at it.
“Miss Mendez.”
I pause halfway up.
“Interesting choice Raffaele’s making.”
I wait.
Nothing else comes.
“Have a nice walk back.”
The afternoon sun is too bright after the dim restaurant interior. I squint against it, walking back toward the office on autopilot while my mind races.
Interesting choice.
What choice? Keeping me alive instead of killing me? Making me his assistant instead of burying me in a shallow grave somewhere?
I consider asking Raffaele.
Then I picture the way he looks at me when I do—the flat, unreadable stare.
I let it go.
Some things are better left alone.
The office building comes into view, glass and steel stretching up into a sky that feels offensively bright. I push through the revolving doors, nod to the security guard, and take the elevator up.
The executive floor is as quiet as ever. Thick carpet swallowing sound, low lighting softening everything into an almost secretive hush.
I’m halfway to my desk when he steps into my path.
Raffaele.
He emerges from a side hallway like he knew exactly when I’d be there. For a second, I wonder if he did.
“How was your delivery?”
“Fine.” I keep my voice steady. “Someone named Nico wants to talk about the Moreno situation.”
His attention sharpens—subtle, but there.
“Nico is none of your concern.”
“I didn’t say he was. I’m passing along the message.”
He doesn’t move.
Neither do I.
“What else did Vincenzo say?”
“That the coffee is terrible.”
Of course that’s the part that doesn’t matter.
“Anything else?”
“He said you were making an interesting choice.” I let that sit. “He didn’t explain.”
“Vincenzo likes to be cryptic. Ignore it.”
That doesn’t feel like advice so much as a dismissal.
He still hasn’t stepped aside.
The wall behind me is closer than I’d like.
“Well then. Tonight,” he says. “Eight o’clock. You’re coming with me.”
“To what?”
“The kind of event where you smile, stay quiet, and look presentable.”
“I don’t have anything for something like that—”
“A dress will be delivered. Wear it.”
“I didn’t agree to this.”
“You don’t need to.”
He steps closer.
I move back without thinking.
My shoulders meet the wall.
That’s it. No space left.
He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t have to. The pressure of his presence is enough on its own.
“You just have to show up,” he says, voice lower now. “Don’t be late.”
He turns and walks away.
I press my palms against the wall behind me, grounding myself against it.
Three days ago, he made it very clear what happens to people who know too much.
That hasn’t changed.
What’s changed is how easy it is to forget.
I push away from the wall and make it back to my desk, focusing on the only thing that still feels safe—work.
Files. Documents. Structure.
Things that make sense.
I lose myself in it as much as I can.
It doesn’t last.
The dress arrives at six.
A courier hands over the garment bag without a second glance.
I bring it inside and lay it across my bed—the bed that barely fits in the apartment, in a neighborhood that gets quiet in a way that isn’t comforting after dark.
The zipper slides open.
I pull the bag back.
And stop.
Red. Deep, almost black in certain light. The fabric catches softly, expensive in a way I don’t need to understand to recognize. The cut is elegant, but not subtle—a high slit, a low back, meant to be seen.
There’s a note pinned to the hanger.
Don’t be late.
— R
I check the time. Two hours.
Enough to get ready. Not enough to overthink it.