Lorenzo Rossy’s eyebrow arched an infinitesimal fraction of an inch. No one—not rival capos, not corrupt city councilmen, and certainly not trembling applicants—ever asked him if he had yelled at a woman who left his office in tears.

Victor’s weapon continued to hammer against the reinforced mahogany doors, the wood splintering slightly under the assault.

Chloe pressed her back against the bookshelves, her eyes wide as she looked from the splintering door back to Lorenzo. The mafia boss didn't look panicked; he looked like a predator who had finally cornered a rabbit in a hedge maze.

“You knew?” Chloe whispered, her voice trembling slightly, though anger was rapidly replacing the terror. “You let me sit out there playing forensic accountant on a stolen ledger while a traitor was casing your office, just to see what I would do?”

“I test everyone who works for me,” Lorenzo replied smoothly, stopping just a few feet away from her. The scent of cedar, espresso, and expensive bourbon washed over her. “The last six secretaries ran at the first sign of trouble. You stayed, broke a glass jar, weaponized a broom, and locked yourself in the inner sanctum to save my ledgers.”

“I didn't lock myself in to save you, I locked myself in to save me!”

“Semantics.”

Before Chloe could deliver a blistering lecture on labor laws and workplace safety, the heavy double doors groaned. A deafening crack echoed through the room as Victor discharged his firearm through the wood. A bullet embedded itself in the mahogany bookshelf two inches above Chloe’s head, raining down dust and splinters.

Lorenzo’s expression shifted instantly. The cool, detached billionaire vanished. In his place stood the Sicilian mob boss.

His eyes flashed with lethal intent. He didn't flinch, didn't panic; he simply stepped in front of Chloe, shielding her body with his own, and reached inside his jacket.

When he pulled his hand out, he was holding a customized Beretta 92FS.

“Stay behind the desk,” Lorenzo commanded, his voice a low, gravelly snarl.

“I’m not staying anywhere near—”

“Stay.”

Before she could argue, Lorenzo spun around, raised his weapon, and fired twice through the splintered panel of the door.

A muffled cry echoed from the hallway, followed by the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.

Silence descended upon the fortieth floor once more, broken only by the steady, rhythmic drumming of the sleet against the glass.

The door slowly creaked open. Matteo stood in the doorway, a smoking gun in his hand, looking down at Victor Vance, who was groaning on the floor with a bullet wound in his shoulder.

“Took you long enough, Matteo,” Lorenzo said coldly, lowering his weapon.

“Traffic on Wacker Drive was terrible, boss,” Matteo deadpanned, stepping over Victor’s unconscious form. He looked past Lorenzo to where Chloe was clutching a tax handbook like a shield. “Looks like the new girl survived her first week.”

Chloe lowered the book slowly, her eyes wide. She looked at the blood on the carpet, then at Lorenzo, who was calmly sliding his gun back into his shoulder holster.

“I quit,” Chloe said clearly.

Lorenzo paused, raising an eyebrow. “You survived the probationary period. Most people get a bonus.”

“I want a raise, hazard pay, a company-issued bulletproof vest, and medical insurance that covers post-traumatic stress induced by homicidal compliance officers!” Chloe fired back, marching past them toward the elevators.