Chapter 3 - The Ghost Vendor
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I looked down at Dante’s hands resting on my swollen foot.
They were hands that signed million-dollar contracts and, if the rumors were true, broke men who betrayed his family.
Yet his grip on my ankle was lighter than a breath.
"My father died three years ago," I said, the words scraping against my throat.
Dante did not interrupt; he simply kept his eyes fixed on mine.
"He ran a small cabinet shop on the West Side," I continued.
"He took a twenty-thousand-dollar loan from a man named Tony Brandt to keep the shop open during the winter."
Dante’s eyes narrowed by a fraction of a millimeter.
"Brandt," Dante repeated, the name tasting like poison on his tongue.
"My father had a heart attack two months later," I whispered.
"On the day of the funeral, Brandt showed up at our apartment."
"He told me that debts do not die with the debtor."
"He said the interest was four hundred dollars every single Friday, cash in an envelope."
"I have paid him twenty thousand eight hundred dollars every year for three years."
"The principal balance has never gone down by a single penny."
A heavy silence settled over the sunlit office.
One of the guards near the door, a broad-shouldered man with a scar over his eyebrow, looked at Dante.
Dante raised two fingers, and both guards stepped out into the hallway, pulling the double doors shut.
"And the stairs?" Dante asked, his voice chillingly quiet.
"Wednesday night, I was short fifty dollars because my electricity bill went up," I said, blinking away the heat in my eyes.
"Brandt met me on the second-floor landing outside my door."
"He took the three hundred and fifty dollars, told me he didn't like short envelopes, and pushed me."
"I hit six steps on the way down."
Dante closed his eyes for three long seconds.
When he opened them, the calm business executive had vanished.
In his place was the apex predator who ruled the city’s concrete canyons.
"He shoved a twenty-five-year-old girl down a flight of concrete stairs for fifty dollars," Dante said, more to himself than to me.
He stood up smoothly, dusting his knees with a single brush of his hand.
He walked over to his desk, opened a small mahogany cabinet, and pulled out an ice pack and a clean linen towel.
He returned to my chair, wrapped the ice pack in the towel, and placed it gently over the bruise.
"Hold that there," he ordered softly.
I pressed my fingers against the cool linen, feeling the throb subside slightly.
"Now," Dante said, sitting on the edge of his oak desk and crossing his arms.
"Tell me about Lakeshore Provisions."
I blinked, surprised by the sudden shift back to accounting.
"How did you know I was looking at that?" I asked.
"Frank Rossi told me you spent three hours cross-referencing their purchase orders yesterday," Dante replied.
"What did you find, Elena?"
Hearing him say my first name sent an unexpected jolt through my chest.
I reached into my canvas bag and pulled out the manila folder I had guarded with my life.
"Lakeshore Provisions bills Moretti Hospitality thirty-two thousand dollars on the first of every month for specialty seafood," I explained.
"The invoices are signed by your head of procurement, Marcus Vance."
"Every single invoice is an even number, down to the dollar."
"Real food vendors invoice by weight, which always results in cents and odd decimals."
"Furthermore, the receiving dock logs show the delivery truck arrives at four in the morning, stays for three minutes, and leaves without unloading a single crate."
Dante picked up the ledger sheets and scanned them with terrifying speed.
"Lakeshore Provisions is a shell company," I said, gaining confidence in my numbers.
"Someone inside your organization is siphoning nearly four hundred thousand dollars a year into an untraceable bank account."
Dante looked up from the paper, a grim, humorless smile touching the corner of his lips.
"Not untraceable," Dante said.
"Do you know who owns the corporate registration for Lakeshore Provisions, Elena?"
I shook my head.
"Tony Brandt," Dante said.
My breath caught in my throat.
May you like
"He is stealing from my company while breaking your bones on the street," Dante murmured.
"And he has no idea that the woman he shoved down the stairs just handed me his death warrant."
