Myra
The high of the boardroom lasted exactly as long as it took for Tony to pull the truck back onto the main road. By the time the towering peaks of the Segretto Star were swallowed by the mist, the "Mad-Dog" bravado began to leak out of me, replaced by a cold, leaden weight in my stomach. I sat rigid in the passenger seat, the smell of leather and heater-blast filling the cab, but all I could feel was the phantom vibration of Raphael Segretto’s baritone voice. It was a voice used to giving orders that moved markets; I had just given him a promise that could break a bakery.
I looked at the check in my hand—ten thousand dollars, signed with the elegant, sharp scrawl of a man who didn't tolerate failure. The paper felt heavy, slick with the ink of a billionaire’s confidence. It was a lif
