Chapter 1 - The SMILE of a Traitor
Renato Marchetti did not move like a man who worked for a living. He moved like a wolf that had spent its entire life finding the softest patches of shade in a forest full of thorns. He was young, mid-thirties, with dark hair cut dangerously close to his scalp and a tailored silk suit that must have cost more than my mother’s entire three-year lease in South Philadelphia.
"Signorina Pellegrini," Renato said, his voice a smooth, low register that felt like velvet pulled over ice. He didn't wait for an introduction. He stepped closer to my mahogany desk, ignoring the churchlike silence of the 47th floor. "The boss has excellent taste in paperwork. I didn't know Gentile Holdings was hiring art pieces to sit at the front desk."
"I am an executive assistant, Signor Marchetti," I said, my voice flat, professional, and entirely devoid of the warmth he was fishing for. I didn't look up from my monitor. My fingers continued to fly across the keyboard, entering the logistics reports for the docks along the Delaware River. "And Mr. Gentile prefers his staff to focus on production rather than decoration."
Behind him, Osvaldo Veraldo let out a soft, low chuckle—the kind of grandfatherly laugh that made you forget he was rumored to control every illegal gambling ring from here to Atlantic City.
"Leave the girl alone, Renato," Osvaldo murmured, patting the younger man’s shoulder with a heavy, diamond-ringed hand. "Gaetano doesn't tolerate distraction on this floor. You know the rules."
Renato’s smile didn't falter. It widened, his dark eyes tracking the line of my collarbone, then dropping to the simple silver watch my father had given me before his heart failed. "Rules are made by men, Osvaldo. And men change their minds when the right temptation presents itself."
Before I could answer, the double doors of the inner office swung open with a sharp, heavy click.
Gaetano Gentile stood in the threshold.
The air in the room instantly vanished. He wasn't wearing his suit jacket; his white shirt sleeves were rolled up twice, revealing the thick, muscular forearms of a man who had earned his position through violence before he ever learned to sign a balance sheet. His gray eyes swept over the trio, landing on Renato with the weight of a falling guillotine.
"Marchetti," Gaetano said. The name was a low, gravelly vibration. "My office. Now."
Renato didn't flinch, but the cocky tilt of his shoulders vanished. He offered me a final, lingering look before following Osvaldo into the lion’s den. As the doors closed, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
May you like
I looked down at my desk. A small, black leather button had fallen from Renato’s sleeve, resting right beside my coffee mug.
I picked it up, intending to throw it away, but then I remembered Tommaso Falcone’s warning about the 7th floor. I slid the button into my blazer pocket instead. In this house, even a loose thread could be the thing that strangled you.
