"Clearly." I made a mental note to have Marco pull her complete employment history. The level of expertise she'd just demonstrated went beyond what her resume suggested. "Continue with your analysis of their operation."
She nodded, returning her attention to her notes, but I caught the slight tension in her shoulders. The way her grip on her pen tightened just a fraction.
She knew I was watching her more closely now. Knew she'd revealed more capability than a typical executive assistant possessed.
Good. Let her be worried. I was beginning to suspect there was far more to Isla Quinn than she'd disclosed.
For the next twenty minutes, she walked us through her analysis of Calabrese's operation—weaknesses in its security, inconsistencies in its financial reporting, opportunities for leverage. Her presentation was concise, insightful, and delivered with quiet confidence, holding everyone's attention.
Including mine. Especially mine.
It wasn't just her competence that struck me—though that was impressive enough. It was the way she seemed to understand instinctivelyhow power operated in the shadows. How information could be weaponized. How systems could be exploited.
Who the fuck was this woman?
When she finished, there was a moment of silence before my team began asking questions. She fielded each one with precision, never overreaching, never guessing when she didn't know an answer.
"That's enough for today," I finally said, rising from my chair. "Marco, implement the surveillance adjustments Ms. Quinn suggested. Johnson, rework the offer based on the actual tonnage numbers, not their reported figures."
The room emptied quickly, leaving only Isla gathering her materials.
"Where did you learn to analyze security protocols like that?" I asked, remaining at the head of the table.
She kept her eyes on her laptop as she disconnected it. "I read a lot."
"Bullshit."
Her hands stilled. "Excuse me?"
"That level of analysis doesn't come from reading. That comes from experience." I moved closer, watching her pulse flutter visibly at the base of her throat. "What aren't you telling me, Ms. Quinn?"
"I had a boyfriend in college who studied cybersecurity," she said, meeting my gaze with surprising steadiness. "I picked up a few things."
It was plausible. Almost believable. But something in her delivery felt rehearsed, as if she'd prepared this explanation in advance.
"A boyfriend." I let the skepticism show in my voice. "Who taught you how to identify backup server reboot sequences and analyze port authority shift changes?"
"He was very thorough." She closed her laptop with a decisive click. "Is there anything else you need, Mr. Barone?"
The dismissal was clear. She wanted this conversation over.
Which only made me more suspicious.
"For now." I stepped back, giving her space to pass. "But Ms. Quinn? I make it a point to know everything about the people who work for me. Everything."
Something flickered in her eyes—fear, perhaps, or calculation. "I'm sure my background check was thorough."
"Background checks show what's on paper." I held her gaze. "I'm more interested in what's not."
She left without responding, but I watched her go, noting the tension in her shoulders, the slight quickening of her pace.
After the door closed, I pulled out my phone. "Marco. I need a deeper dive on Isla Quinn. Employment history, education records, and known associates. And find out who she dated in college."
"You think she's lying about the boyfriend?"
"I think everything about her feels like a carefully constructed cover story." I returned to the window, watching the city below. "And I want to know what she's covering."
"I'll have it by tomorrow."
