The Wolf in the Gray Uniform

Dante stood up, walking slowly around his mahogany desk until he stood just an arm's length away from her.

He didn't look like a mob boss in that moment; he looked like a man who was acutely aware of every gear turning within his empire—and realized one of the most important gears had been gathering dust in the cleaning closet.

“How much debt do you carry?” Dante asked abruptly.

Harper stiffened.

“That has nothing to do with my employment—”

“Everything in this house has to do with leverage, Harper,” Dante interrupted softly. “A woman with your mind doesn't scrub marble floors for minimum wage unless a hospital or a collection agency has a knife at her throat.”

She looked down at the floor, the memory of her mother’s endless medical bills flashing behind her eyes.

“Eighty-four thousand dollars,” she whispered. “Principal and accrued interest.”

Dante reached into his inner suit pocket, pulled out a gold-nibbed pen, and slid a blank check across the edge of the desk.

“Write the number,” he said.

Harper stared at the paper.

“I am not a charity case, Mr. Costa. I worked for my wages.”

“And now you’re getting a promotion,” Dante replied, his tone brooking no argument. “The fixer position Thomas left behind is vacant. The salary is twenty times what we pay for housekeeping. And the debt is cleared tonight.”