Chapter 2 - The Devil’s Currency
The rain lashed against the frosted glass of the private dining room, turning the city lights of the Rust Belt into smudged streaks of neon and gray. Inside, the only sound was the slow, rhythmic tick of a brass grandfather clock tucked into the corner, and the occasional hiss of steam from the restaurant’s radiator.
Enzo Bianke leaned back in his leather chair. He did not touch his drink, nor did he look away from Khloe’s face. His eyes were like polished obsidian—reflecting light, but giving away nothing of the machinery working behind them.
“You said you don’t understand,” Enzo murmured, his voice low, vibrating with quiet authority. “It’s simple, Khloe. In my world, everyone is loud. Sal screams when he is angry. My rivals boast about shipments they haven’t received yet. The politicians I pay off strut around like peacocks because they hold a title. They are all visible. And because they are visible, they are predictable. But you…”
He tilted his head slightly.
“You stood in that dining room for three years. You served the men who killed my uncle. You poured wine for the prosecutors who tried to indict me last winter. You cleared plates while capos discussed territory lines from Detroit to Buffalo. And not once—not a single time—did anyone notice you were listening. Until tonight.”
Khloe’s throat was parched. The glass of amber scotch sat between them like a challenge, but she refused to touch it. “Tonight was a mistake. I was protecting Tommy.”
“Tonight was an audition,” Enzo corrected smoothly. “A demonstration of value. And value is the only currency I care about.”
He reached into the inner breast pocket of his charcoal suit jacket. He didn't pull a weapon; instead, he removed a slim, black leather checkbook and a fountain pen made of heavy silver. Without looking down, he uncapped the pen.
“Seventy-two thousand, four hundred and eighteen dollars,” Enzo said calmly.
Khloe flinched. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. “How do you know that number?”
“I know the hospital: St. Jude’s Memorial. Third floor, oncology ward. I know your father, Thomas Bennett, fought for nineteen months before his kidneys gave out. I know your mother died of heart failure when you were fourteen, leaving you her grandmother’s gold cross and a dialect spoken only in the back alleys of Palermo.” Enzo wrote a figure across the check with deliberate, elegant strokes. “I know you work sixty hours a week here, sixteen hours on weekends cleaning a laundromat on 4th Street, and you still eat instant noodles four nights out of seven.”
He ripped the check from the book with a crisp, clean sound that echoed like a small whip. He slid it across the mahogany table. It came to rest an inch from her knuckles.
Khloe looked down. The check was made out to the collection agency handling St. Jude’s medical bills. The amount was written for eighty thousand dollars.
“Eight thousand extra,” Enzo said. “For your landlord. And some groceries.”
Khloe pulled her hands back into her lap, balling them into tight fists. Her heart was slamming against her ribs like a bird in a snare. “What does invisibility cost in your business, Mr. Bianke?”
“Your life, if you fail,” he answered without hesitation. “Total loyalty, if you succeed.”
He leaned forward, resting his forearms against the dark wood. The faint scent of cedar and expensive bergamot washed over her again. Up close, she could see a faint, faded scar running from the edge of his left cheekbone down to his jawline—an old wound, healed cleanly, but permanent.
“Someone inside my organization is talking,” Enzo said, his tone turning as cold as the November frost outside. “Information regarding our supply routes out of the docks is reaching the Marcone family across the river. Three nights ago, one of my drivers was executed outside a warehouse in Youngstown. The men who did it knew the schedule, the license plates, and the exact route.”
Khloe’s breath hitched. “You have capos. You have soldiers. Why are you telling a waitress?”
“Because soldiers look for enemies with guns. Capos look for rivals to take their spots. They all have egos. They all have ambitions.” Enzo’s dark eyes bored into hers. “A traitor does not speak treason to an enforcer. A traitor whispers in corners when they think only the service staff is around. They pass notes under napkins. They use the old dialect when they think American girls only hear noise.”
He pointed a blunt, calloused finger at her chest.
“You are going to become my personal assistant. You will travel with me. You will sit in the back of my meetings, pour my coffee, hold my files, and stand in the corners of hotel suites while deals are negotiated. You will speak to no one about what you hear. You will write down every word, every shift in tone, every strange dialect phrase. And you will report only to me.”
“And if I say no?” Khloe whispered.
Enzo picked up his glass of scotch, took a measured sip, and swallowed.
“If you say no, you take your apron, you clock out, and you go back to your three jobs. You spend the next twelve years paying twenty-eight percent interest to bankers who don't care if you starve. Sal will likely find an excuse to corner you in an alley three months from now because you wounded his pride, and I will not be there to tell him to let you go.” He set the glass down with a solid clink. “I don't force women into my service, Khloe. But I do not offer a hand twice.”
Khloe looked at the check.
Eighty thousand dollars. It was the weight of a mountain lifted off her chest. It was the phantom cough of her dying father in that sterile hospital room, telling her he was sorry for leaving her with nothing. It was her freedom from starvation—wrapped in a contract with the most dangerous man in the state.
She reached out. Her fingers were still red and raw from the dishwater, but they did not shake when she picked up the slip of paper.
“I have two conditions,” Khloe said.
Frankie, standing silently by the door, let out a sharp scoff. Enzo raised a single finger, silencing his bodyguard instantly.
“Name them,” Enzo said, a dangerous glimmer of amusement dancing in his dark eyes.
“First, Tommy stays safe. Sal doesn't touch him, demote him, or cut his hours. If anything happens to that boy, I walk.”
“Done,” Enzo said without blinking. “What is the second?”
“I don’t carry a gun, and I don’t hurt anyone. I listen. That’s all.”
Enzo smiled. It was not a warm smile; it was the razor-thin smirk of a wolf that had just watched the prey step willingly into the enclosure.
“You won’t need a gun, Miss Bennett,” Enzo said quietly. “Words kill far more cleanly than lead.”
He stood up, adjusting his cuffs. Frankie stepped forward and held open his heavy black wool overcoat. Enzo slid his arms into it, transforming back into the untouchable monarch of the Rust Belt underworld.
“Frankie will drive you to your apartment. Pack your essentials. By seven tomorrow morning, a car will bring you to my estate in Highland Park. You will be provided with clothes appropriate for the position.” Enzo paused at the door, glancing back over his shoulder. “Get some sleep, Khloe. Tomorrow, your old life is dead.”
May you like
The door clicked shut. Khloe remained in the chair, clutching the check against her chest, listening to the rain fall like bullets against the glass.
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