His voice was quiet, devoid of anger but heavy with a quiet authority.

“You knew,” I said, my voice shaking as I held up the paper.

“You knew exactly who I was before you ever offered me the job at the club.”

He shut the heavy oak door behind him.

The lock clicked back into place with a sharp, final sound.

He walked toward the desk, his footsteps silent on the thick Persian rug.

“I did,” he said.

“Why?” I demanded, stepping back until my spine hit the cold glass of the window.

“Was it some kind of game? Am I just leverage to you?”

He stopped a few feet away, smelling of expensive cedarwood and leather.

“If you were leverage, you would be in a basement, not working my payroll,” Dante said.

He reached out and took the folder from my fingers.

His touch was surprisingly gentle, his warm fingers brushing against my cold skin.

“James owes money to the Moretti family,” he explained.

“A lot of money.”

“I know that,” I said, pointing to the red circles on the map.