Chapter 5
MARI
Numbers have always been clean to me. They don’t lie, don’t spin half-truths, don’t hide behind smiles or excuses. They lay themselves bare, and if you know how to read them, you can unravel all their secrets.
That’s why I chose this field, why forensic accounting appealed to me more than any glossy finance job. I like peeling back layers, catching the hairline cracks beneath the surface. After a week at Levcon, I’ve begun to see several cracks.
That isn’t company inefficiency. Someone is stealing money, on purpose. Unfortunately, the numbers can’t tell me who or why.
I sit back in my chair, staring at the stack of spreadsheets and printouts.
The office has grown quiet as people trickle out for the evening, but I stay, my lamp the only glow in the small space.
My pulse picks up as I shuffle the pages, check the numbers again, make sure I’m not imagining it.
The trail is there, plain as day. Someone is siphoning money, and not in a subtle way.
I tell myself to wait. To gather more proof, to dig deeper before I say anything. But the part of me that has worked so hard to get here pushes me to act. If there is fraud inside Levcon, it’s my duty to report it. That’s the whole reason I was hired.
So I gather the folder, smooth the pages, and walk down the hall toward the corner office. The closer I come to his door, the tighter my stomach knots.
Lev is inside, his jacket draped over the back of his chair, the top buttons of his shirt undone. He looks up when I knock, his eyes sharp and unreadable as always.
“Ms. Gonzales,” he says, leaning back in his chair. “It’s late.”
“I know.” My voice is steady, even as my palms go damp against the folder. “I found something you need to see.”
I cross the room and set the folder on his desk. He glances at it, then at me, before flipping it open. His gaze scans the pages with the precision of a blade, and I wait for the approval, the thanks, the recognition that I’m doing exactly what I was hired to do.
Instead, his jaw tightens. His shoulders stiffen. And when his eyes lift to mine, they burn.
“Where did you find this?” His voice is low, controlled, but there is an edge to it that slices straight through me.
I blink, thrown. “In your accounts. The discrepancies were buried, but I traced them. It looks like a couple hundred thousand dollars has gone missing over the last few months. I thought—”
“I already know everything I need to know,” he snaps, handing back the folder.
“What I want from you is thoroughness. If you find a hole, you do not come here with half answers. You track every penny. Every single one. And you do not set foot in my office again until you have the full picture. Do you understand?”
I swallow hard and resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Yes, sir,” I mutter.
“Good.” He shoves the folder back toward me, the pages sliding against the desk. “Get back to work.”
I gather the folder with stiff fingers, my pulse pounding in my ears.
I want to argue, to defend myself, to demand to know why he was so angry when I’m just doing exactly what I was hired to do.
But his expression dares me to push further, and I know I would lose.
So, I turn and leave, the folder clutched to my chest.
As the door closes behind me, the sound of something crashing inside makes me jump. A glass, maybe. Then his voice roars, low but furious, words I can’t make out.
I freeze in the hall, my heart racing. He must be on the phone, shouting at someone, his tone sharp enough to cut through the thick door. A second crash follows, and I back away, pulse hammering.
I duck into my office, shut the door quietly, and press my back to it. My hands shake as I set the folder down, my mind racing.
Fifteen minutes later, the quiet is broken by the thud of footsteps. I look up just in time to see a group of men in dark suits striding down the hall, their presence heavy, their faces hard. They aren’t Levcon employees. At least, they aren’t men I’ve seen in my nearly two weeks here.
Except for Marcus. He’s the CFO, and technically my boss, although Lev has been making me report directly to him instead. Probably part of his dickish power trip.
They go straight into Lev’s office without knocking.
I sit frozen at my desk, the folder of numbers staring back at me. I thought this job was about money, about ledgers and clean sheets. But as the muffled rumble of voices rises, I realize I’ve stepped into something else entirely. Something dangerous.
And I’m not sure I want to know what.
By the time I get off the subway and trudge up the stairs of my apartment building, my head is still spinning from the nightmare of a meeting with Lev. My folder is clutched so tightly to my chest, it’s a wonder the cardboard hasn’t torn. Every word of his rage echoes in my mind.
He hadn’t just been angry. The reaction was too sharp, too heavy. It rattled me more than I wanted to admit, and the sound of the glass shattering afterward clung to me the whole ride home.
All I want is to collapse onto the couch with Susie, drink a cheap glass of wine, and forget the way Lev’s eyes burned when he ordered me out of his office.
But when I push our apartment door open, everything inside me goes still.
A man sits at our tiny kitchen table. He wears a suit, dark but not flashy, his tie loosened as if he has been waiting.
His hair is close-cropped, his jaw clean-shaven, his expression calm in a way that immediately puts me on edge.
His hands rest lightly on the table in front of him, palms down, his jacket pulled just enough to reveal the faint glint of a badge clipped to his belt.
“Who the hell are you?” I ask him sharply.
The man stands smoothly, pulling out a leather wallet and flipping it open. The gold shield catches the dim light of our overhead bulb. “Special Agent Cole,” he replies evenly. “FBI.”
My stomach drops. “FBI?”
He closes the wallet and slides it back into his jacket. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sorry to intrude, but we need to talk.”
Susie pokes her head out of her room, shooting me a panicked and confused look. I shrug at her and wave her back.
“Privately,” Agent Cole amends, louder than necessary, as if he can see Susie behind him.
She quickly retreats back into her room, but I know she’s standing by her door, listening as intently as she can.
Agent Cole’s mouth tightens, but his tone stays calm. “I’d like to keep this conversation professional, Ms. Gonzales.”
I feel my throat dry out, my pulse racing.
“What is this about?” I ask, sinking into the chair across from him, my pulse pounding.
He looks at me directly, his gaze steady and almost too sharp. “It’s about your employer, Lev Borikov.”
The room tilts, and I’m glad I’m seated. “What about him?”
Agent Cole’s voice lowers, his words precise. “As I’m sure you’re aware, Mr. Borikov is a very powerful man. In addition to running Levcon Industries, he is also the leader of a dangerous criminal organization.”
The words crash through me with the force of a storm.
They don’t fit with the man whose cologne had lingered on my skin, whose hand had guided me through a dark hallway, whose mouth had claimed mine with a desperate urgency.
They don’t fit with the cold CEO who barks orders across a polished desk.
And yet, as soon as Cole says it, something inside me clicks into place.
The fury over missing money. The men in dark suits storming his office. The sense of command that went beyond business.
It all fits.
My heart pounds in my ears. “No. That can’t be right.”
Cole’s expression doesn’t change. “I assure you, it’s right. Lev Borikov runs a prominent Russian Bratva. Levcon is his legitimate front, but the money moving through that company funds racketeering, extortion, and arms trafficking. He is as dangerous as they come.”
I shake my head, clinging to the chair like it might anchor me. “I’ve only been there two weeks. You can’t be serious.”
Agent Cole nods once. “I’m afraid I’m very serious. And that puts you in a very precarious position, Ms. Gonzales. You work directly under him. You see his accounts. You are in a position to either help us or bury yourself alongside him.”
I stare at him, the words sinking like stones. My stomach turns.
“I don’t know anything,” I blurt. “I’ve barely started. I don’t—”
“That’s not exactly true, is it?” Cole interrupts, his tone sharper now. “You’ve already uncovered discrepancies, haven’t you? Money missing? Numbers that don’t add up?”
My blood goes cold. He knows. Somehow, he already knows.
I force my face blank. “No. I haven’t.”
His eyes narrow, studying me as if he could peel away the truth just by staring long enough.
“Be very careful, Ms. Gonzales. Withholding information in an active investigation can land you in prison. You think Mr. Borikov will protect you if things go bad? He’ll let you take the fall and never look back. ”
The words cut, because a part of me knows they might be true. Lev’s cold dismissal, his fury when I brought him the discrepancies, were all about self-preservation. He hadn’t cared how it looked for me. He hadn’t cared how small it made me feel.
But there is another part of me, the part that remembers the heat in his kiss, the steel of his presence. That part of me wants to protect him.
Agent Cole slips a card from his jacket pocket and places it on the table. “This is my direct number. Think carefully, Ms. Gonzales. You’re standing on a line that could ruin your life if you stay silent. We’re your only way out if things go south.”
I stare at the card like it might burn me. White stock, black letters, crisp and official. My lifeline or my noose.
“I told you,” I say, my voice low and shaking. “I don’t know anything.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, but he doesn’t argue. “Then think about what I’ve said. And when you’re ready to stop protecting a criminal, call me.”
He slides the chair back, stands, and crosses the room with the same calm he has maintained during his visit. At the door, he pauses, his eyes cutting back to me. “Prison wouldn’t be friendly to a nice girl like you. Choose wisely.”
Then he’s gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
For a moment, silence reigns. My breath comes fast, my chest tight. Susie slips out of her room as soon as she hears the front door close.
“Mari,” she whispers. “What the hell are you mixed up in?”
I sink into the nearest chair, the weight of the folder in my bag pressing against my side like a curse. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I really don’t know.”