I stood nervously by the edge of the mahogany desk, my fingers wringing the fabric of my modest gray blouse. I felt exposed, small, and hopelessly out of my depth. Vincent hadn't let go of Mia’s hand. In fact, he had lifted her up effortlessly, settling her onto the corner of his grand desk as if she belonged there among the encrypted laptops and gold-plated fountain pens.

Mia kicked her little legs back and forth, entirely unbothered by the multi-million-dollar mahogany altar of crime she was sitting on. She was busy examining a heavy glass paperweight filled with swirling blue liquid.

“Well?” Vincent prompted, leaning his hip against the edge of the desk, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His charcoal suit jacket pulled taut across his shoulders, emphasizing the lethal power hidden beneath the Italian tailoring. “You broke protocol, Elena. You bypassed perimeter security with a civilian minor. And worse, you interrupted a tactical briefing.”

“My babysitter called in sick at six this morning, Mr. Castalano,” I said, my voice rising defensively, a sudden surge of pride overriding my fear. I couldn't lose this job. If I lost this job, we wouldn't have groceries by next Tuesday. “My sister was on a double shift at Mercy General. Daycare wanted seventy dollars upfront, which I don't have until payday. I had nowhere else to go. I thought I could keep her quiet in the laundry room for a few hours while I sorted the archive logs. It was my fault. Punish me, dock my pay, fire me if you have to—just don't take it out on her.”

As the words tumbled out of my mouth, raw and unpolished, I braced myself for the axe to fall. In the Castalano organization, excuses were treated like treason. Weakness was a liability.

Vincent stared at his desk, his expression unreadable. The room remained dead silent save for the hum of the climate control and Mia humming a tuneless song to the glass paperweight.