Secretary of Vengeance

Chapter 3

6:17 a.m.

The smell of burnt toast from Mrs. Chen’s kitchen hit me before the light did. No alarm necessary.

I opened my eyes to the ceiling leak, which had grown overnight into a jagged brown vein pulsing across the plaster. Drip.

My body felt like lead. Sleep had been a joke, just hours spent staring at the ceiling, replaying the way Luca looked at that wooden box in Midtown.

The bathroom mirror was fogged over. I wiped a circle with my palm, revealing a wreck of a face—puffy eyes, mouth set in a grim line. I splashed cold water on my skin until my teeth ached, trying to shock myself into functioning.

No makeup. Just moisturizer and the faint white scar on my left eyebrow where Elena pushed me off a swing set in ‘09. I traced the line of it. Focus.

Breakfast was a spotted banana and yesterday’s coffee nuked in the microwave. It tasted like battery acid, but I downed it while scrolling through the company chat. Someone had posted a meme about the Zurich deal: “When the boss says urgent but it’s been urgent since 2018.”

I didn’t laugh. Screenshot. File under 'Morale.'

Getting dressed was a tactical operation. Navy shell, cream cardigan, black trousers that actually fit. Loafers scuffed at the toe. I let my hair down, curls fighting the humidity. The goal wasn't to look like a spy. I needed to look like the girl who brings cookies to the office potluck. Harmless.

Bait.

Subway. 6:42 a.m.

The car was a claustrophobic nightmare. I wedged myself next to a woman knitting a tiny red hat while the train rocked and rattled toward downtown. Click-click. Click-click. The sound dug up a memory of Elena trying to teach me to knit once; I’d made a scarf so long we ended up wrapping the Christmas tree in it.

I forced my eyes to the ads above the windows. Teeth Whitening. Divorce Lawyers. Anything but the past.

When the train screeched into Fulton Street, the Financial District hit me like a physical blow—exhaust, river water, and desperation. Men in suits rushed past, heads down, murmuring into AirPods. I walked two blocks to the De Luca Tower, a fortress of grey stone with revolving doors that weighed a ton.

Beep. In.

The elevator ride up was a crush of bodies. I stood in the corner, clutching my bag while two accountants argued about crypto. I memorized their faces: Lila and Marcus.

58th Floor.

The office hummed with ringing phones and printers spitting paper. I dropped my bag at my new desk. I’d moved it yesterday, feeding facilities a line about "better workflow," but really, it was just closer to the printer and gave me a direct line of sight to the conference room reflection.

I set up my space: three pens, a stack of Post-its, and a succulent I’d stolen from the lobby. Settled. Permanent.

7:29 a.m.

The elevator chimed. Luca.

He was talking to someone, but my gaze snagged on him instantly. He looked tired, but even exhaustion couldn't dull him. Walking next to him was a man who looked like Luca’s reflection in a carnival mirror—distorted, sharper.

Matteo De Luca. The cousin. Head of Security.

My knuckles turned white around my pen. If Luca was the monster, Matteo was the cage. The fixer. The guy who handled the "security" so Luca kept his hands clean. Matteo was laughing, clapping Luca on the shoulder a little too hard, a little too possessively.

I stood up. “Morning, Mr. De Luca.” Then, shifting focus, “Morning, Mr. Matteo.”

Luca gave a distracted nod. Matteo stopped. He turned fully toward me, dark eyes sweeping me up and down in a slow, gross appraisal.

“Isabella,” he said, smiling with too many teeth. “Love the cardigan. Cashmere?”

He knew it wasn't. Just a reminder that I was the help.

“Target clearance,” I deadpanned.

He chuckled, a dry, scratching sound. “Charming.”

Luca didn't laugh. He was already opening his office door. “Matteo. Conference room. Five minutes. I want to know why the port sensors are offline.”

Matteo winked at me before trailing after him. My skin crawled.

8:00 a.m.

I bypassed the instant sludge the interns drank for the good machine in the break room. Two cups, real beans. One for Luca—oat milk, two sugars. One for me—black.

I grabbed two chocolate croissants from my stash, plated them, and knocked on his door.

“Come.”

He was at his desk, tie off, sleeves rolled up. And he was wearing reading glasses.

Black frames. Thick. Perched on the bridge of his straight nose.

My step faltered. My breath hitched, sudden and stupid. I hated him with everything I had, but seeing him like that—brow furrowed, gray eyes framed by the dark plastic, looking so intensely focused—it did something to me. It felt unfair. Obscene.

The glasses didn't make him look harmless. They made him look dark. Like a fantasy I shouldn't be having. Like the kind of man who would take you apart with his mind before he even touched you with his hands.

Heat flared in my stomach, hot and shameful. I wanted to walk over there and sit on the edge of his desk. I wanted him to look at me over those rims.

Stop it. He’s a murderer, not a centerfold.

I forced my feet to move. “Peace offering,” I said, voice a little breathless. Hopefully, he didn't notice. “For the oat milk shortage last week.”

He looked up over the frames. The magnification made his eyes look even more intense. He took the cup, took a sip. His shoulders dropped an inch. “Better.”

I set the croissant down. “The Milan files are on the shared drive. I flagged three discrepancies.”

He paused. “Already?”

“Couldn't sleep.”

He studied my face—the lack of makeup, the tired eyes. “You’re full of surprises,” he murmured.

“Part of the job.”

I turned to leave before I did something idiotic like stare at his mouth.

“Isabella.”

I stopped. “Sir?”

“Keep the door open a crack.”

I nodded, walked out, and left it open three inches.

9:15 a.m.

The air in the boardroom was always three degrees too cold. I stood at the head of the long mahogany table, the hum of the projector fan the only sound in the room. On the screen behind me glowed a spreadsheet, magnified to show a single, damning row of data.

"As you can see here," I said, voice steady despite the thumping of my heart, "in the third quarter of the fiscal year—ten years ago—there is a significant discrepancy in the security budget allocation. Funds were moved, but no vendor was attached to the invoice."

I looked directly at Luca.

He sat at the opposite end of the table, spinning a fountain pen between his fingers. He didn't look threatened; he looked bored. That was the year Elena died. That was the money that likely paid for the silence of the police, or the cleanup crew, or whatever hell he had unleashed on my sister.

I waited for a flinch. A frown. A crack in the armor.

Instead, a nervous cough came from the right.

"It’s a coding error."

I didn't even turn my head.

Matteo was speaking, but to me, he was just furniture—expensive, decorative, and ultimately useless. He was nothing more than the stuck-up cousin who got a pity job as Head of Security and took it way too seriously. He didn't have the stomach for Luca's true nature; he was just the lapdog protecting the perimeter.

I kept my eyes locked on Luca, refusing to acknowledge the lackey.

"A coding error?" I repeated, addressing the air.

"Yes," Matteo said quickly, his voice coming from the periphery. I could hear the rapid, erratic tapping of a tablet screen. "We switched accounting software platforms that September. It created duplicate ghost entries for several departments. It’s a known glitch. I’ve been meaning to have IT scrub it."

He sounded dismissive, but he was talking too fast. There was a tremor of panic in his voice that didn't match the simplicity of a software bug.

Typical. Terrified I’m going to expose his incompetence to Luca.

In my head, Matteo was just worried about looking sloppy. I assumed he was sweating because he hadn't cleaned up his department's messy logs before a board meeting. I had no idea that the panic radiating off him had nothing to do with a glitch and everything to do with the fact that he had been quietly siphoning funds for years—especially in that specific year.

I ignored him entirely and took a step toward the head of the table. "It seems like a large amount for a 'ghost entry,' Luca. Perhaps we should audit the—"

"Matteo handles the security accounts," Luca interrupted, voice smooth, finally stopping the spinning pen. He stood up, the scrape of his chair signaling the meeting was over. "If he says it’s a glitch, Isabella, it’s a glitch. We don't waste resources chasing ghosts."

Luca checked his watch, already mentally moving on to his lunch reservation. "Is there anything substantive to discuss? Or are we done reviewing ancient history?"

My jaw tightened. Ancient history. To him, Elena was just a line item to be archived.

"No," I said, shutting off the projector. "That’s all."

From the side of the room, I heard Matteo let out a breath—a short, sharp exhale that sounded like immense relief. I rolled my eyes internally. He was probably just glad he didn't get chewed out for the clerical mess.

I gathered my files, watching Luca stride out of the room without a backward glance. I didn't spare a second thought for Matteo or his "coding error." They were just obstacles. Static interference.

Matteo was just the wall Luca hid behind. I needed to get past the cousin, past the glitches, and straight to the monster's throat.

1:30 p.m.

Lunch found me on a cold stone bench in Zuccotti Park, choking down a sandwich that tasted like cardboard.

I looked up at the fifty-eighth floor. Blinds closed. Luca was probably in there, drinking espresso, making deals, living his life as if he hadn't destroyed mine.

The "glitch" excuse was weak, but Luca didn't care about the details. That was his arrogance. He thought he was untouchable. He thought no one would dare question the numbers.

He was wrong.

I crumpled the sandwich wrapper and tossed it in the bin. I wasn't just questioning the numbers. I was going to weaponize them.

2:45 p.m.

Back at my desk, a Post-it note sat stuck to my keyboard.

Bright yellow. Luca’s handwriting—sharp, jagged spikes.

Penthouse. 8 p.m. Bring the Milan discrepancies. - L

No please. No thank you. Just an order.

I peeled the note off and folded it into a tiny square, slipping it into my bra, right next to a heart beating a frantic, angry rhythm against my ribs.

He wanted to work? Fine. We’d work.

I went to the ladies' room and splashed cold water on my face to cool the flush in my cheeks. I looked at myself in the mirror. The scar on my eyebrow caught the harsh office light, and I touched it gently.

“Tonight,” I whispered to my reflection. “We find out what’s in the box.”