Page 26 of Indigo Deception
"Gotta go," I tell Matteo, ending the call before he can reply.
Sarah rubs sleep from her eyes, and without her armor—the tight bun, the pressed suit, the don't-fuck-with-me stare—she looks younger, almost fragile. Like she's let her guard down. Like I'm seeing the woman behind the wall.
"Morning," I say, pouring coffee into a mug. "Sleep well?"
She takes it with a shy nod, her fingers brushing mine. "Better than I expected."
"Regrets, Little Auditor?" I can't help but smile.
"Don't call me that." But there's no irritation or anger in her words this morning. Her eyes flicker to my chest, then away, a flush creeping up her neck.
"Where are you really from?" I ask, observing her reaction. "Sometimes I catch something in your accent that isn't New York."
She sips her coffee. "Chicago, originally. Moved around a lot as a kid."
"Chicago." I nod, storing this nugget away. It tallies with her file. "And your family?"
"There's nothing interesting there. My parents died in a car accident when I was young."
Correct too.
"What about you?" She perches on a barstool, crossing those long legs. "Growing up Bellanti must have been... intense."
I lean against the kitchen sink. "We're just a loud Italian family at heart. Sunday dinners with too much food and too many colorful words.”
She laughs—a genuine laugh that reaches her eyes, and my chest tightens. "Somehow I doubt that's the entire story."
"You'd be surprised," I tell her, taking a sip of my coffee. "Every family has secrets, but most days, we're just people trying to get by."
"People who make problems disappear?"
My hand freezes mid-air. I dropped my coffee.
"Is that what you think I do?" I ask quietly.
She holds my gaze. "I think there's more to Angelo Bellanti than a financial genius in Tom Ford suits."
"And what do you know about what I am?" I ask, keeping my voice casual despite the tension crackling between us.
"Nothing concrete," she blurts. Too quickly. "Just... rumors. Wall Street gossips like teenagers."
I study her face. Maybe I'm just being a little paranoid and she's merely striking a conversation, but something deep within me feels wrong.
But instead of dwelling on it, I stand upright and ask, “What do you want for breakfast?”
—
"The Zhangs are threatening to pull out of our Asian expansion," I tell Sarah as we ride the private elevator down to my penthouse. "They've been key partners for years, but regulatory changes have spooked them."
She nods, all business now in her sharp charcoal suit, hair once again pulled into that severe bun that makes her cheekbones look like they could cut glass. "What do you need from me?"
"Your expertise. The Zhangs respect specialists. Show them we're managing risk properly, and they'll stay."
"You want me to convince them to keep their money with you?" One perfectly arched eyebrow rises. "That's not typically what risk managers do."
I can't help but smile. "Consider it a test of your…adaptability."
The restaurant is hidden beneath Manhattan in a former bank vault. Mr. Zhang and his son are waiting, their expressions closed and wary.
