But when his hand brushed against mine on the leather seat, I did not pull away.

***

The next afternoon, Dante called me to his private penthouse office on the thirty-second floor of his luxury high-rise.

The room was vast, with floor-to-ceiling glass looking out over a grey, stormy Lake Michigan.

Rain lashed against the glass, blurring the distant Chicago skyline.

“Wait here,” Dante said, gesturing to the heavy leather chair in front of his desk.

“I need to take a call from the docks. I will be back in five minutes.”

He walked out, closing the double oak doors behind him with a soft click.

I sat in the chair, the silence of the room pressing in on my ears.

My eyes immediately drifted to the desk.

It was a massive slab of dark mahogany, kept meticulously clean.

But today, a thick, cream-colored folder sat near the edge, half-hidden under a brass paperweight.

The corner of the folder had a red label that read: *VANCE – MORETTI.*

My pulse spiked.

I stood up, my heels making no sound on the thick Persian rug.