The Wolf in the Gray Uniform

By Monday morning, the atmosphere in the Costa estate had shifted in ways the remaining staff could feel without understanding.

Harper no longer wore the gray polyester maid's dress.

Instead, she stood in Dante’s study wearing a sharply tailored charcoal pantsuit that fit with the precise, understated elegance of someone who belonged in the room rather than someone cleaning it.

Carmine stood by the window, crossing his thick arms over his chest, eyeing her with a mixture of resentment and begrudging respect.

“If she translates a single word wrong during the Hamburg conference, the Germans will walk,” Carmine muttered, not bothering to hide his skepticism.

“She won't,” Dante said, sitting behind his desk as he reviewed a fresh stack of shipping manifests. “She understands the difference between what men say and what they intend to do. Which is more than I can say for half the board.”

Harper placed a fresh cup of espresso on Dante’s desk.

She didn't spill a drop.

“The Hamburg delegation arrives at noon,” Harper reported, her voice steady and professional. “Their lead negotiator, Heinrich Vance, uses polite corporate jargon, but his primary weakness is a desire to bypass the union blockades in Rotterdam. If we offer him exclusivity on the overland rail routes, he’ll drop his price demands by four percent.”

Dante looked up, a genuine look of surprise breaking through his usual stoic mask.

“How do you know about the Rotterdam union blockades?”

“I read the intelligence summaries you left on the side table on Thursday,” Harper said smoothly. “Along with the tax records from the third-quarter subsidiary.”

Carmine choked on his own breath.

“You read the classified ledgers?”

“If I’m going to protect your interests, Mr. Carmine,” Harper said with a faint, chilling smile, “I prefer to know where the bodies are buried—financially speaking.”