Chapter 2
“You have a remarkable talent for finding trouble, Ms. Brooks,” Nico finally broke the heavy silence, his tone remarkably devoid of malice, carrying instead a faint hint of dry amusement.
Sienna swallowed hard, lifting her chin with a stubborn flash of pride that she refused to surrender, even to a syndicate boss. “I was trying to check my schedule, Mr. Valente. If someone hadn't decided to use the hallway as a personal boardroom, I wouldn't have had to resort to tactile communication.”
A low rumble of laughter vibrated in Nico’s chest. “Tactical communication. Is that what you call poking a man who controls half the import docks on the East Coast?”
“Well, you weren’t listening to verbal communication,” she retorted, crossing her arms defensively. “And for the record, your jacket blocks the entire Tuesday shift list. Do you have any idea how hard it is to plan a weekend when you don't know if you're closing?”
Nico leaned back against the leather seat, studying her with a gaze that felt entirely too penetrating. He knew everything about Vesper; in fact, syndicate properties surrounded the upscale establishment, serving as neutral ground for business dinners and delicate negotiations. Yet tonight, all his massive security apparatus and high-stakes criminal logistics had been completely upended by an exhausted, fiercely independent waitress with too much sass and two cocktails in her system.
“You aren't afraid of me,” Nico stated, not as a question, but as an observation that seemed to genuinely intrigue him.
“I work eighty hours a week dealing with wealthy businessmen who think tipping five percent is an act of charity, and toddlers trying to maim me with plastic trucks,” Sienna shot back, her exhaustion momentarily overriding her self-preservation instincts. “A man in a nice suit who refuses to move out of the way doesn't rank very high on my list of terrifying things.”
Before Nico could formulate a response, the car slowed to a smooth halt. Sienna looked out the window and froze. They weren't at a police station, nor were they at a shady warehouse on the docks. The car had pulled into the private, subterranean security garage of the Valente Tower—a towering monolith of glass and steel in the heart of downtown, protected by biometric scanners and armed guards.
“Where are we?” Sienna asked, a sudden spike of real apprehension cutting through the lingering haze of the cocktails.
“Somewhere safe,” Nico answered quietly, opening his door and stepping out into the damp concrete garage before walking around to open hers. He offered a large, calloused hand to help her out. Sienna stared at his hand for a long moment before placing her smaller fingers tentatively into his grip. The contrast between them was striking, yet the warmth of his skin sent a strange, magnetic current racing straight up her arm.
As they rode the private elevator up to his penthouse suite, Nico explained the grim reality that had prompted his sudden extraction from Vesper. Earlier that evening, intelligence had reached him that a rogue faction within the rival Morello family was targeting businesses associated with his financial fronts, and Vesper had been flagged as a potential flashpoint. By removing Sienna, he hadn't just rescued her from a bruised ego; he had unknowingly pulled her out of the crosshairs of an impending underworld war.
Stepping out of the elevator into the breathtaking expanse of Nico’s penthouse, Sienna felt the breath catch in her throat. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the glittering city skyline below. But it was the clutter on the sprawling mahogany desk that caught her trained eye: open ledgers, financial statements, and shipping manifests lay scattered across the surface. Being an accounting minor in college and someone who loved organizing chaos, Sienna instantly recognized the glaring red flags in the columns.
“Your logistics routing for the northern import sector is a complete disaster,” Sienna blurted out before her brain could stop her mouth.
Nico stopped walking, turning back in surprise with an arched eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
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Sienna marched right up to the desk, completely forgetting for a second that she was standing in the lair of the most dangerous man in the city. She pointed a finger—thankfully not poking him this time—at a column of figures. “Look at this tariff allocation. You’re losing at least fifteen percent on secondary warehousing fees because your shipments are routed through Cicero instead of O’Hare’s freight terminal. Who’s doing your books? A blind raccoon?”
Nico stared at her, utterly flabbergasted. For four years, high-ranking lieutenants and terrified financial advisors had tiptoed around him, terrified to deliver bad news. Yet here stood a waitress in a black-and-pink uniform, critiquing his syndicate’s supply chain efficiency with the fierce authority of a corporate auditor. Instead of anger, a slow, dangerous smile crept across Nico’s face—a look of a man who had just discovered buried treasure in his own backyard.
