“Yes, sir. Very quiet. Spent time with family.”
“Your father?” His eyes hold mine. The pause stretches—one second, two—while his pupils track the micro-movements of my face.
“Yes, sir. He’s doing better. The weekend was... peaceful.”
I meet his eyes. Hold them. Don’t blink first. That’s what Alex taught me—liars blink too much or not at all. I blink normally. Count to three in my head. Blink again.
Pass the lie detector test.
“Good. Family is important.” He straightens slightly. “I need you to close out all your current cases this week.” He adjusts his cuff. Rolex catching the lights. “Everything wrapped up by Friday.”
My stomach drops. When Dom clears your plate, something’s coming. Something big.
The copper taste gets stronger. I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth. Focus on that instead of the way the walls feel like they’re closing in.
“Of course, sir. May I ask?—”
“Monday. Nine o’clock sharp. My office.” He glances around the third floor. Not at anything specific. Just scanning. Noting who’s here, who’s listening, who might notice. “After Amber’s unfortunate departure, you’re the only senior paralegal I have left. The only one I trust with sensitive matters.”
The only one.
Because he fired Amber. Because Sydney took petty cash for a pedicure and became an example. Because Dom systematically removes anyone who might see too much, know too much, ask too much.
Leaving just me.
The lights buzz louder suddenly. Or maybe that’s the ringing in my ears—that high-pitched hum that sat behind everything Friday night when I heard that confession.
“There’s a client.” Dom’s voice is casual. Too casual. “High profile. Government sector. They need someone with your experience. Your discretion.”
Government sector.
My mind races through the possibilities while my body stays perfectly still. City officials. State representatives. People with enough power to need Dom’s particular services.
People who can afford him.
People who need bodies to disappear.
“I’ll have everything ready, sir.” My voice sounds normal. Steady. The voice of someone who doesn’t know what discretion really means in this building.
He pauses. Looks around the floor again. At all the cubicles. The ones that used to be full.
“It’s unfortunate about Amber. And Sydney.” His eyes find mine. Hold them. “But sometimes we have to make difficult decisions to protect the firm’s interests.”
Translation?
You’re only here because I allow it.
You’re still here because you’re useful.
Keep being useful or join them.
This is how men like Dom operate—they don’t fire you for knowing too much. They just make you the only one left who does.
My mouth goes dry.
That taste—adrenaline, the same metallic tang from Friday night when I ran down four flights of stairs in darkness, when my heart hammered so hard I thought Dom would hear it through the stacks’ door.
“This client values stability. Family people.” He adjusts his cuff again. “The kind of person who takes care of their father.”
