Secretary of Vengeance

12:47 p.m. The intercom buzzed. It sounded like a gunshot in the dead quiet of the office. “Isabella. My office. Now.” My hand stopped over the open drawer. The envelope was right there. Sitting on top of a stack of unpaid invoices like it was nothing. Like it didn’t hold the end of my world inside it. I didn’t look at it. I didn’t have to. The image was burned into my brain. A black-and-white Polaroid. Luca De Luca, nineteen years old, standing in an alley. And on the wet pavement, my sister Elena. He killed her. The thought hit me hard, right in the gut. Same as this morning. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I grabbed the photo. Folded it small three folds, one tuck. Elena taught me that. Said it was how you kept secrets safe in church. I shoved it into the hidden pocket I’d stitched into my bra cup. It scratched against my skin. Right against my heart. Thump. Thump. Her heartbeat. Mine. Didn't matter anymore. They were the same thing. I stood up. Smoothed my skirt. Checked my lipstick in the black reflection of my monitor. War paint. I walked the twenty-three steps to his door. I counted them. Kept me from screaming. One. Two. Three. God, I used to worship this man. I had a Pinterest board locked on my phone called Future Husband. It was pathetic. Ten years of staring at his photos, memorizing his interview answers, swooning over the way he rolled his sleeves up. I got this job just to breathe the same air as him. Four. Five. Six. I’d let a killer into my head. I knocked once. “Enter.” Luca was at the window. Manhattan was shining behind him, all gold and expensive glass. On his desk, a white orchid sat in a vase. Perfect. Not a brown spot on it. He didn’t turn. “Close the door.” Click. The lock snapped shut. It was too loud. He turned around. Luca De Luca. Six-foot-two of custom-tailored violence. He looked good. That was the worst part. He looked like a movie star, not a monster. Broad shoulders, sharp jaw, eyes that were that weird, cold gray that made you feel like he was taking you apart to see how you worked. “You’ve been distracted,” he said. He started walking toward me. He didn’t rush. He moved like a shark in a tank. My breath caught. Not because I was swooning. Though my stupid body still reacted, heat flaring in my stomach but because I was terrified. “Just focusing on the quarterly reports,” I lied. My voice didn't shake. I was shocked. “Don't lie to me, Isabella.” He stopped way too close. I could smell him. Cedar and something sharp, like expensive scotch. It made me sick. He looked down at me. His eyes dropped to my throat, watching my pulse jump, then back up. He looked confused. Like I was a math problem he couldn’t solve. “You’re tense,” he said. “You look like you’re waiting for the building to collapse.” “It’s the coffee,” I forced a smile. It felt tight, like plastic. “Too much caffeine. And the Zurich merger.” He stared at me for a second. Silence stretched out, heavy and thick. I thought he knew. I thought he could see the photo burning a hole in my bra. If he touched me, I was going to vomit. Or stab him with his own pen. He turned back to the window. Dismissed. “Zurich itinerary. On my desk by three.” “Yes, sir.” “And Isabella?” I froze. Hand on the knob. “Yes?” “Fix your lipstick. You’ve chewed it off.” I got out of there fast. My legs were shaking so bad I had to lean against the wall the second the door clicked shut. Hate tasted like copper in my mouth. I hate you, Luca. I hate that I want you. And I’m going to ruin you. The rest of the day was a blur. I smiled at interns. I laughed at terrible jokes in the break room. I held the elevator for Mrs. Amoah from accounting and asked about her grandson while my brain played a loop of my sister’s dead body. Perfect secretary. Perfect mask. 7:58 p.m. The office cleared out. The hum of voices died, leaving just the air conditioning buzzing. I waited in my cubicle. Watched the security feed on my screen. The hallway cameras did a thirty-second loop. Now. I moved. Secretary gone. Ghost active. I slipped into his office. It was dark now, shadows stretching across the floor like long fingers. I went straight to the painting behind his desk—that ugly red and black abstract thing. I gripped the frame. Swung it. The hinges squeaked. My heart was hammering against my ribs. If the cleaners came in... if Luca forgot his phone and came back... The safe was there. Digital panel glowing in the dark. 7-2-9-4. Elena’s birthday, backward. The arrogance of it made my hands shake. He used her birthday for his alarm. Like a trophy. The lock beeped green. I pulled the steel door open. It smelled like old dust and cold cash. Inside were stacks of bills, a bunch of passports, and a gun. Matte black. And the ledger. I grabbed the book. My fingers were slippery with sweat. I flipped it open. Scanned the dates. June 14, 2015. Rossi, M. – $250k. Collateral: E.R. – executed. Debt closed. The air punched out of my lungs. Executed. Just a word on a page. Like a grocery list. Collateral. That was my sister. That was Elena. “Bastard,” I whispered. My throat hurt. “You sick bastard.” I pulled out my phone. Hands shaking. Focus, Bella. I took a picture of the page. The passports. The gun. Squeak. A noise from the hall. Rubber wheels on tile. The janitor’s cart. Panic flared hot. I shoved the ledger back. Threw the passports on top. Slammed the safe and swung the painting back just as the handle turned. I dropped to the floor. Pretended to look for an earring. The door opened. A flashlight beam swept the room. “Hello? Mr. De Luca?” I held my breath. Counted my heartbeats. Don't come in. Don't come in. The door clicked shut. The wheels squeaked away. I slumped against the desk. Sweat was cooling on my back, making my shirt stick. I had the proof. Now I just had to survive using it. I took the service elevator. The garage smelled like gas and damp concrete. I walked fast to my Civic. Keys laced between my fingers like claws. The shadows looked deep. Every echo sounded like footsteps behind me. “You’re still here.” I spun around. Luca was leaning against my car. Arms crossed. Sleeves rolled up, showing the muscle in his forearms. The garage lights flickered, making him look jagged. He looked relaxed. Dangerous. A wolf waiting for a straggler. “So are you,” I said. I gripped my bag tighter. The phone felt heavy inside, like a brick. He pushed off the car. Walked toward me. He owned the space. He stopped a foot away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to grab. “I noticed you working late,” he said. “Dedication is rare.” “Just wanted to get ahead on the Zurich files.” “Liar.” He said it soft. He reached out, and I flinched. He didn't hit me. He just held out a hand. A gold keycard sat between his fingers. “Penthouse. Midnight. Come alone.” I stared at the card. Then up at him. “Why?” I whispered. “Because you’re different, Isabella.” He looked at my mouth, then my eyes. “Because you don't look at me like a paycheck. You look at me like you’re trying to figure out how to take me apart.” A chill went down my spine. He was closer to the truth than he knew. I should run. Take the photos to the cops. But the cops were on his payroll. The penthouse. That was his fortress. That was where the real secrets were. If the ledger was here, imagine what was in his house. I looked at the card. I took it. “I'll be there,” I said. He nodded. A small smirk touched his mouth. He thought he’d won. Thought he’d charmed the shy secretary into his bed. He turned and walked to his black SUV. The engine roared to life. I watched him go. I gripped the plastic card until it dug into my palm. Luca De Luca thought he was inviting a rabbit into his den. He thought he was the hunter. He had no idea he’d just handed the keys to the slaughterhouse to the wolf. “See you at midnight, Luca,” I whispered. “Don't sleep.”