#CHAPTER 1: The Man Who Had Forgotten How to Laugh
Nine years had passed since anyone heard Dante Marino laugh.
Then I walked into what looked suspiciously like an execution, handed Chicago’s most feared Mafia boss a stack of paperwork, and said, “If you’re going to shoot him, please don’t do it on the rug.”
My name is Emily Davis.
I was thirty-one years old, chronically exhausted, permanently over-caffeinated, and apparently born without the part of the human brain responsible for self-preservation.
At least, that was what Tommy Russo told me.
“You’re either the bravest woman in Chicago,” he once said, “or you have absolutely no survival instinct.”
“I have survival instinct,” I told him.
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s called direct deposit.”
That usually ended the conversation.
I worked as Dante Marino’s personal secretary because he paid me twelve thousand dollars a month.
People always reacted to that number.
They imagined designer handbags, rooftop restaurants, luxury vacations, maybe an apartment overlooking Lake Michigan.
My reality was different.
Eight thousand dollars disappeared every month before I could touch it.
It went directly to Willow Creek Residential Center, the private facility caring for my younger brother, Noah.
Noah was twenty-six.
He had needed supervised residential care for years, and Willow Creek was the first place where he had genuinely begun to thrive. He had his own room. People treated him with dignity. He worked in the greenhouse three mornings a week and called me every Sunday to describe whatever tomato plant had become his newest obsession.
It cost more money than I had ever imagined spending.
So when the Marino organization offered twelve thousand dollars a month for a personal secretary who could manage impossible schedules, tolerate unreasonable hours, and keep her mouth shut, I didn’t ask too many questions.
I needed the money.
And Dante needed a secretary.
Apparently those two forms of desperation were enough to build a career.
Most of his assistants lasted three weeks.
One quit after Dante stared at him for thirty seconds without speaking.
Another cried in the elevator.
A third disappeared during lunch and mailed her office key back from Wisconsin.
I had been there eleven months.
Dante Marino was thirty-eight, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and frightening in the way only very quiet men could be frightening.
He didn’t yell.
He didn’t pound tables.
He didn’t threaten employees.
He simply looked at people.
That was usually enough.
The legitimate side of his empire included shipping companies, restaurants, warehouses, construction firms, and real estate holdings.
Then there were the businesses nobody discussed in meetings.
Gambling.
Private clubs.
Cash operations.
And enough shell corporations to make an accountant question every decision that had led them into the profession.
Nine years earlier, Dante’s wife, Clara, had died when a car bomb intended for him exploded outside a restaurant.
Dante survived because he’d stayed inside to answer a phone call.
Clara had gone ahead.
People said Dante arrived outside seconds after the explosion.
People also said something inside him died there.
I never asked.
That was another reason I kept my job.
I didn’t ask Dante Marino personal questions.
I managed calendars.
I negotiated invoices.
I organized contracts.
I knew which restaurant could find a private table for twelve people with twenty minutes’ notice.
I knew which warehouse manager lied about overtime.
I knew Dante drank espresso without sugar.
And I knew he visited a cemetery every November 17 and canceled every appointment for the rest of that day.
But I never asked why.
That rainy Thursday began normally.
Which, in Dante’s office, meant three angry contractors, two delayed shipments, one nervous attorney, and a city inspector who suddenly decided he didn’t need to meet with us after all.
At 10:17 a.m., Tommy Russo stopped beside my desk.
Tommy was one of Dante’s enforcers.
He was six feet two, built like somebody had assembled him from leftover refrigerator parts, and currently looked as if he might throw up.
“If I don’t come back out…” he began.
I kept looking at my spreadsheet.
“I’ll cancel your dentist appointment Tuesday.”
Tommy blinked.
“And I’ll mail your final check to your mother.”
“Emily.”
“What?”
“I might die in there.”
“Then you definitely won’t need the dentist.”
His mouth opened.
Nothing came out.
The door to Dante’s office opened.
One of Dante’s guards said, “Tommy.”
Tommy swallowed.
“Tell my mother I love her.”
“You call her every night.”
“Tell her again.”
He disappeared inside.
Three minutes later, something heavy crashed.
I quietly moved my coffee farther from the edge of my desk.
Nobody screamed.
That was encouraging.
At 10:42, Tommy emerged.
Alive.
His face was white.
“Dentist still Tuesday?” I asked.
He stared at me.
“Yes.”
“Excellent.”
Then he walked away.
By eleven, I had a larger problem.
Three million dollars was missing from one of the South Side operations.
I discovered it because somebody had accidentally duplicated a transfer report.
Most employees would have immediately called Dante.
I didn’t.
First, I found the money.
It took twelve minutes.
Whoever had stolen it had routed the transfer through a shell corporation called Genovese Agricultural Holdings.
Salvatore Genovese’s mother had been born Lucia Agriculturali.
Well, not literally.
But the actual maiden name was close enough that the stupidity was almost artistic.
Sal had worked for Dante’s family for more than twenty years.
He was one of the organization’s oldest captains.
And apparently he was terrible at financial crime.
I printed everything.
At 11:40, I received a message from Dante.
SEND SAL IN.
That was when I realized he already knew something.
Sal arrived two minutes later.
He looked at me.
“What’s happening?”
“No idea.”
“You always know.”
“I know the IRS is arriving at two.”
“Emily.”
The office door opened.
“Mr. Genovese.”
Sal went inside.
At 11:44, I remembered the compliance documents sitting beside my keyboard.
If Dante didn’t sign them before the auditors arrived, one of our legitimate payroll accounts could be temporarily frozen.
There were four hundred and sixteen employees attached to that account.