My Sweet Dangerous Bookkeeper

The summon

DANTE’S POV

The rain started just as I pulled up to the warehouse on Ninth Street.

I killed the engine and sat in the darkness of my car, watching water streak down the windshield. The warehouse looked abandoned with rusted metal siding, broken windows on the upper floors and weeds growing through cracks in the pavement.

It was a perfect cover for what actually happened inside.

My phone buzzed. A text from my father: “Don't be late Saturday. First impressions matter.”

I deleted it without responding.

"You going to sit out here all night?" Viktor's voice crackled through my earpiece. "Because I'm freezing my ass off on this roof."

"Give me a minute." I stood up, put my phone in my pocket and dusted my behind.

"We don't have a minute. The shipment arrives in twenty."

I grabbed my gun from the glove compartment and stepped out into the rain. The cold rain soaked through my jacket immediately.

I preferred it to the stuffiness of my father's estate, where everything was controlled and calculated and slowly suffocating me.

Viktor dropped down from the fire escape as I approached. He was built like a tank, all muscle and scar tissue, with a face that had forgotten how to smile somewhere around his third stint in prison. "You look like shit."

"Thanks for the observation." I grunted.

"I'm serious. When's the last time you slept?"

"When's the last time you minded your own business?" I moved past him toward the side entrance. The metal door was already ajar, just enough to slip through.

Inside, the warehouse was mostly empty except for rows of industrial shelving and the smell of motor oil and rust.

My men were positioned throughout the space. Angelo by the loading dock. Chen on the catwalk. Marco near the office. All of them watching the center of the warehouse floor where a man sat zip-tied to a chair.

His name was Peter Kowalski. He worked in the Port Authority. He'd been on our payroll for three years, making sure certain shipping containers cleared customs without inspection.

Last week, one of those containers got flagged anyway. Twenty million in pharmaceuticals seized. Someone had snitched on us.

I approached him slowly, my footsteps echoing in the empty space.

Peter's head lifted. His left eye was swollen shut, blood crusted under his nose. Angelo had gotten started without me.

"Mr. Salvatore. Thank God. There's been a mistake…."

"Has there?" I pulled up a metal folding chair and sat down facing him. Close enough that our knees almost touched.

"Because from where I'm sitting, it looks pretty clear. We pay you. You make sure our shipments move smoothly. Except this one didn't move at all."

"I swear I didn't….." His voice came out harsh and dry from all the torture.

"Don't." My voice came out quiet. "Don't insult me by lying. We've already traced the anonymous tip to your personal email. The one you thought was encrypted."

His face went pale. "They threatened my daughter. These guys, they knew where she goes to school, what time she….."

"Who are they?" I thundered, impatience leaning in.

"I don't know. They never showed their faces, they always called from burner phones." The words tumbled out desperate and fast. "They said if I didn't cooperate, they'd hurt Emma. She's seven years old. What was I supposed to do?"

I studied him. The fear in his eyes looked real. The tremor in his voice sounded genuine. But I'd seen men lie while crying, beg for mercy while hiding knives. Trust was a luxury I couldn't afford.

"Viktor," I said without turning around.

"What did we find out about the daughter?"

"Emma Kowalski. Seven years old, like he said. Attends St. Mary's Elementary." Viktor's heavy footsteps approached. "School confirmed she's been picked up on time every day by either her mother or Peter. No incidents reported."

"So the threat was real," I said. "The question is whether you took it seriously enough to betray us, or whether you're using your daughter as a convenient excuse."

"I swear, Mr Salvatore…." He pleaded desperately.

"Here's what's going to happen." I leaned forward, elbows on my knees. "You're going to tell me everything. Who contacted you, what they wanted, how they knew about our operation. And if I believe you, if your story checks out, we'll provide protection for your daughter and you walk away breathing."

"And if you don't believe me?" He swallowed.

"Then Emma becomes an orphan tonight."

The cruelty in my own voice didn't bother me anymore but it should have.

Five years ago, before I took over operations, before I became my father's right hand, the cruelty would have bothered me. Now it was just another tool.

Fear worked. People responded to it.

Peter talked for fifteen minutes straight.

He gave names, dates and phone numbers. A crew from Brooklyn was trying to move into our territory. They'd identified weak points in our operation and were exploiting them. Peter was just the first.

When he finished, I stood. "Viktor, verify everything he said. If it checks out, relocate his family to the safe house in Jersey and put two men on them."

Relief flooded Peter's face. "Thank you. God, thank you….."

"Don't thank me yet. This isn't mercy." I looked down at him, making sure he understood. "You work for us now. Really work for us. Your daughter's safety depends on your continued cooperation. We own you."

He nodded quickly. Desperately. "Yes. Whatever you need."

I walked away. Angelo and Marco followed me to the office. It was a small room with a desk, filing cabinets, and a grimy window overlooking the warehouse floor.

"You believe him?" Angelo asked, closing the door behind us.

"Doesn't matter if I believe him. What matters is whether we can use him." I pulled out my phone, scrolling through messages. Three from my father about Saturday's engagement party. One from my sister asking if I was okay. Nothing from the person I actually wanted to hear from. "He stays alive as long as he's useful."

Marco leaned against the desk. "What about the Brooklyn crew?"

"Send a message. Permanent one." I glanced up from my phone. "But make it clean. We don't need a war right now."

"Because of the wedding?" Marco's tone was careful and neutral.

Everyone knew about the wedding. The whole family knew. The Russo family certainly knew. Probably half of New York's underworld knew by now. Dante Salvatore, marrying some bookshop owner to end a decades-long feud.

"Because my father wants peace," I said. "And until I'm running things, we play by his rules."

"You've seen her?" Angelo asked. "The girl?"

I had. Not that I'd tell them that.

Three months ago, I'd been following a lead on a weapons dealer. The meet was supposed to happen at a restaurant in Little Italy.

I'd gotten there early, positioned myself at the bar and ordered a drink I knew I wouldn't finish. Then she walked in.

She has dark hair which was pulled back into an elegant ponytail. She wore a simple black dress, carrying herself like someone who'd learned to be invisible.

She sat alone in a corner booth, ordered some tea, and pulled out a book. I'd almost dismissed her as just another regular customer.

Then a man joined her. He was rough looking, had tattoos on his knuckles.

He slid an envelope across the table but she didn't touch it right away. Instead she leaned forward and spoke. I couldn't hear the words, but I watched his expression change from confident to nervous to afraid.

When she finally took the envelope and stood to leave, he stayed in his seat, sweating.

I followed her. I watched her walk six blocks to a bookshop. Russo's Rare Books. The sign was faded, the windows were filled with displays of old novels.

She'd unlocked the door and disappeared inside.

It took me two days to connect her to Lorenzo Russo. She was his niece, the daughter of Antonio Russo, who'd died in prison five years ago. According to every file we had, she was nobody. An irrelevant civilian.

But I'd watched her make that man afraid with just words. I'd seen the calculation in her eyes as she walked away. And I'd known, with absolute certainty, that Gabriella Russo was not nobody.

I'd started watching her after that. Learning her patterns and her routine.

The bookshop opened at nine and closed at six. She had coffee at the same cafe every morning, lived alone in an apartment three blocks away from her bookshop and went to the movies on Thursdays.

She was perfect. Too perfect. Like a painting where every brushstroke was deliberate.

I desperately wanted to know what she was hiding.

When my father proposed the marriage alliance three weeks ago, when he told me the Russos had agreed and that I'd be marrying Lorenzo's niece, I'd felt something I hadn't felt in years. Interest.

"I've seen her in photos. She's pretty enough," I lied to Angelo. "And she seems quiet, I'm sure she won't cause problems."

Marco snorted. "Sounds boring."

"Boring is exactly what I need right now." I pocketed my phone. "Finish up here. I need to get back."

The drive home took forty minutes in traffic. Rain hammered the roof of my car. The radio played something classical that I wasn't really hearing. My mind kept circling back to Saturday.

The engagement party. It was the first time we'd officially meet. First time I'd see if that calculation in her eyes was still there, or if she really was just a scared girl being forced into an arrangement she didn't want.

Part of me hoped she was scared. It would make this simpler.

The other part, the part that had watched her for three months, hoped she wasn't.

I wanted to know what she'd do when she realized I'd been watching. When she figured out that I knew her morning coffee order, her favorite bookshop aisle, the fact that she always locked her apartment door twice. Would she be angry? Afraid?.

Or would she understand that this was all part of the game?

My phone buzzed again. This time it was Viktor: “Peter's story checks out. The Brooklyn crew had five guys on the inside. We're handling it.”

I typed back: “Good. Keep me updated.”

Then another text came through. It was an unknown number.

“Looking forward to Saturday. - G”

I stared at the message. Gabriella Russo didn't have my personal number. No one outside my immediate circle had this number. Which meant she'd gone to some effort to get it.

I smiled in the darkness of my car.

Maybe this wouldn't be boring after all.

I typed back: “So am I.”

Then I drove home through the r

ain, already planning what I'd say when we finally stood face to face. Already wondering if she'd see through me the way I'd seen through her.

Already knowing that this marriage was going to be far more interesting than either of our families had bargained for.