The blood on Gabriel Costa’s Persian rug was still wet when Francesca Moretti decided she hated him.
Not feared him.
That would come later.
Hated him.
Two men in dark suits rolled the ruined rug toward the steel service doors at the rear of the penthouse office while Frankie stood across from the most dangerous man she had ever met and wondered how her brother had managed to drag their family this deep into hell.
Gabriel Costa looked nothing like the monsters her imagination had prepared her for.
Monsters were easier.
They snarled.
They threatened.
They enjoyed showing you their teeth.
Gabriel sat behind an immaculate black-marble desk wearing a charcoal suit, an open-collared white shirt, and the calm expression of a man discussing quarterly profits.
“Three hundred thousand dollars,” he said.
Frankie shoved her grease-stained hands into her canvas jacket.
“He doesn’t have three hundred thousand dollars.”
“I know.”
“And you want our garage.”
“I want the land.”
“The garage is standing on the land.”
His mouth almost moved.
Almost.
“Then yes.”
Frankie placed the deed on his desk.
“My father left sixty percent to me. Leo owns forty. My brother cannot give you what he doesn’t own.”
For the first time, something changed behind Gabriel’s dark eyes.
Interest.
She hated that too.
He reviewed the deed.
Frankie watched him carefully.
Everything about the office announced power without asking anyone’s permission.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Chicago.
Original paintings hung on walls of black stone.
A brass sculpture on a shelf probably cost more than every hydraulic lift inside Moretti Auto.
And there had been blood on the carpet.
That mattered more than all of it.
Gabriel closed the deed.
“Your brother neglected to mention this.”
“My brother once drove my mother’s Buick through a grocery-store window and forgot to mention that too.”
One of Gabriel’s bodyguards made a suspicious choking sound.
Gabriel glanced toward him.
The guard immediately studied the ceiling.
Frankie crossed her arms.
“So we’re finished.”
“No.”
Her temper rose.
“The garage belongs to me.”
“Leo’s debt still belongs to me.”
“Then collect it from Leo.”
“Family debts become complicated.”
“Not this one.”
Gabriel stood.
Frankie’s pulse betrayed her.
He was enormous.
Not cartoonishly muscular, not a mindless brute.
Worse.
Controlled.
He walked around the desk and stopped several feet away.
“Your brother wagered money he didn’t have.”
“He’s stupid.”
“He lost.”
“He’s unlucky and stupid.”
“He borrowed more.”
“Extremely stupid.”
“He signed a contract.”
“Stupid with stationery.”
That almost earned another reaction from the guards.
Gabriel’s expression remained unreadable.
Frankie knew men like him.
Not mafia bosses.
Men who believed silence could make other people fill the room with fear.
She repaired engines for a living.
Machines taught patience.
They also taught you that pressure always found the weakest seal.
Gabriel was applying pressure.
Frankie refused to leak.
“You knew Leo had a gambling problem,” she said.
The room changed.
“Careful.”
“There it is.”
“What?”
“The gangster underneath the businessman.”
His gaze hardened.
“You believe I cheated your brother?”
“I believe you didn’t need to.”
She stepped closer.
“You saw a desperate man convinced his next bet would repair the last one. You kept lending because you wanted our property.”
Silence.
Frankie should have stopped.
Instead, she continued.
“I fix machines. Machines make noises before they fail. Men do too.”
Then Gabriel showed her the contract.
He would take the property.
Leo’s debt would be reduced.
Frankie would work the remaining balance off by repairing Gabriel’s freight fleet at Pier Forty-Four.
Her brother would remain unharmed.
Physically unharmed.
Those two words made something inside her snap.
English suddenly felt too polite.
So Frankie switched to the language her grandmother had used whenever civilization proved inadequate.
Sicilian.
She called Gabriel an arrogant son of a rotten donkey.
An empty-bellied prince.
A soulless octopus trapped inside a thousand-dollar suit.
She suggested his ancestors should leave the cemetery specifically to slap him.
Then she explained—in impressive anatomical detail—exactly where he could put his contract.
Nobody breathed.
One guard looked ready to write her obituary.
Gabriel stared.
Then his shoulders moved.
He laughed.
Not the cold, fake laugh of a powerful man humoring someone.
A real laugh.
Deep.
Startled.
Almost delighted.
Frankie stopped.
Gabriel approached her.
“Say it again.”
“What?”
“The octopus.”
Her stomach tightened.
“You understood me?”
“My grandmother was from Palermo.”
Of course she was.
The universe clearly hated Frankie personally.
Gabriel leaned closer.
“Say it.”
Frankie stared directly into those dark eyes.
“You are a dead octopus without honor.”
His smile arrived slowly.
“Better.”
“You’re insane.”
“Probably.”
“I insulted your mother.”
“That part was dangerous.”
Despite herself, Frankie nearly smiled.
Gabriel noticed.
His eyes dropped toward her mouth.
For one dangerous second, the room became too quiet.
Then he reached toward her collar.
Frankie slapped his hand away.
The guards moved.
Gabriel stopped them with one finger.
“You have grease on your cheek.”
“I’m a mechanic.”
“It appears devoted to you.”
“Unlike most men, grease is useful.”
He laughed again.
Then he stepped back.
“You keep the garage.”
Frankie froze.
“What?”
“The deed remains yours. No lien.”
Suspicion immediately replaced surprise.
“And?”
“You work for me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Your negotiating style lacks range.”
“My answer has clarity.”
He told her the interest would freeze.
Her labor would be credited well above market rate.
Leo would be permanently banned from every gambling operation Gabriel controlled.
Frankie demanded a written contract.
She demanded her own lawyer.
She demanded no uniform.
Gabriel agreed to almost everything.
Then he told her to report to Pier Forty-Four at six the next morning.
“I hate you,” she said.
“So you’ve mentioned.”
“Frankie.”
“Six o’clock, Francesca.”
She stormed out.
The next morning, Pier Forty-Four smelled like diesel, wet steel, cold lake air, and poor decision-making.
Frankie loved it immediately.
She hated discovering that too.
The maintenance warehouse was a disaster.
Expensive equipment.
Bad organization.
Missing tools.
Ignored maintenance schedules.
Two dozen trucks being managed by men too frightened to admit they were making mistakes.
By noon, Frankie had correctly diagnosed a cooling-system failure two mechanics had wrongly called a blown head gasket.
By three, the foreman stopped calling her sweetheart.
By five, men who had ignored her were asking for advice.
By the end of the week, Frankie understood something important.
Gabriel Costa had built an empire.
But somebody inside that empire was quietly destroying his machines.
She discovered it Friday night.
A truck scheduled to transport $4 million worth of legitimate pharmaceutical equipment had suffered a brake-pressure failure during inspection.
The replacement component was nearly new.
Frankie removed it.
Turned it beneath the work light.
Saw the tiny score mark.
Intentional.
Someone had weakened it.
“Dominic.”
The foreman came over.
She held up the part.
“Who installed this?”
His expression changed.
“Why?”
“Because someone wanted this truck to fail.”
Dominic stared.
“That’s impossible.”
“No.”
Frankie looked toward the security camera above the bay.
“It’s expensive.”
A voice came from behind her.
“How expensive?”
She turned.
Gabriel stood ten feet away.
Black shirt.
Dark trousers.
No jacket.
For the first time, he looked less like a corporate executive and more like what everybody whispered he was.
Frankie held up the damaged component.
“Your fleet isn’t badly maintained.”
His expression sharpened.
“Explain.”
“Some of it is.”
“Francesca.”
She sighed.
“Somebody is sabotaging your trucks.”
Every mechanic in the warehouse went silent.
Gabriel came closer.
“How certain?”
“I’d bet Leo’s remaining debt.”
“That certain.”
“That certain.”
He studied the part.
Then her.
“Walk with me.”
“I’m working.”
“That wasn’t a request.”
Frankie tossed the part onto the bench.
“Then work on your communication skills.”
Dominic looked terrified.
Gabriel looked entertained.
They crossed the warehouse toward the docks.
Outside, rain shimmered under industrial lights.
Massive cranes stood against Chicago’s night skyline.
Gabriel stopped near an empty shipping container.
“This vehicle was scheduled for Route Seven tomorrow.”
“So?”
“Route Seven carries something somebody wants.”
“What?”
“Evidence.”
Frankie frowned.
“Evidence of what?”
Gabriel watched the water.
“For six months, someone inside my organization has been stealing from legitimate freight accounts and using my infrastructure to move contraband.”
“Your infrastructure?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a polite way of saying mafia infrastructure.”
“It’s a flexible phrase.”
“You’re impossible.”
“So you’ve said.”
She folded her arms.
“What was on the truck?”
“Documents headed to federal auditors.”
Frankie looked back toward the warehouse.
“If the brakes failed on the expressway…”
“The driver could die.”
Her anger vanished.
“That truck was supposed to crash.”
“Yes.”
A terrible realization arrived.
“Who knew the route?”
“Seven people.”
“Now eight.”
Gabriel turned toward her.
“No.”
She stared.
“What?”
“Seven.”
Understanding chilled her skin.
“You didn’t know until I told you.”
Gabriel nodded.
“Which means whoever did this knows my operation better than I do.”
Frankie looked through the rain toward the warehouse filled with workers.
Somewhere inside was a saboteur.
Someone willing to kill.
Then Gabriel said the words that would change both their lives.
“Starting tonight, you don’t work underneath my organization.”
Frankie frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means you work directly for me.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I already have a job.”
“You have three.”
“That is exactly my point.”
Gabriel stepped closer.
“You found in five days what my security people missed for six months.”
“That sounds like a staffing problem.”
“It is.”
He looked toward the warehouse.
“Tomorrow morning, I’m calling every captain, director, manager, and lieutenant who controls transportation.”
Frankie’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?”
“Because you’re going to sit beside me.”
She laughed.
Then realized he was serious.
“Absolutely not.”
“Francesca—”
“I repair trucks.”
“You identify weakness.”
“In engines.”
“No.”
His gaze settled on her.
“In systems.”
Rain ran from the edge of his dark hair.
For once, there was no amusement in his face.
Only certainty.
“I need somebody who isn’t afraid of me.”
Frankie looked at him.
“That narrows Chicago considerably.”
“One person.”
She knew what he meant.
Her.
Gabriel opened the passenger door of the black SUV waiting near the warehouse.
Frankie didn’t move.
“What exactly happens if I say no?”
“Nothing.”
That surprised her.
“I’ll investigate without you.”
“And Leo?”
“His agreement remains unchanged.”
“My garage?”
“Still yours.”
“No punishment?”
“No.”
Frankie studied him.
That answer was more dangerous than a threat.
Because for the first time since meeting Gabriel Costa, he was giving her a genuine choice.
She hated how much that mattered.
“Fine,” she muttered.
Gabriel’s mouth curved.
“Fine?”
“Don’t enjoy it.”
“I’m trying.”
“I sit in your meeting. I tell you what I see. Then I go back to fixing engines.”
“Of course.”
She pointed at him.
“That sounded dishonest.”
“It was optimism.”
Frankie climbed into the SUV.
Behind them, beneath the lights of Pier Forty-Four, someone watched from the shadow of an upper office.
Then a phone appeared.
A message was sent.
She found the brake line.
The reply came seconds later.
Then Costa’s mechanic has become a problem.
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