Chapter 2 - The Snake at the Dinner Table
The rain over Lake Forest began at dusk, turning the heavy glass windows of the estate's grand dining room into sheets of streaked dark grey.
For the first time in nine weeks, Seth Basil was actually eating dinner at home.
He sat at the head of the massive oak table, looking exhausted. His charcoal suit jacket was draped over the back of his chair, his white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, revealing the faint shadow of an old bullet scar near his collarbone. At thirty-three, Seth carried himself with a dangerous, coiled grace, his sharp jawline and icy grey eyes marking him as a man who lived every second on the absolute edge of violence.
Sitting across from him was Angelo Ross, his primary adviser—a polished, handsome man in his late forties with silvering hair and an easy, dazzling smile that had charmed half the politicians in the city.
Fiona sat at the far end of the table, quietly cutting her small portion of roasted salmon. As usual, she wore a simple, loose-fitting dress in dark green, her dark hair pinned back without ornament.
To Seth and Angelo, she was effectively part of the scenery—like an expensive, bulky vase placed at the end of the room that neither man felt the need to converse with.
"The port authority is pressing us on the Pier 22 shipments, Seth," Angelo said, swirling a glass of expensive Barolo. "Victor says the dock workers are threatening a strike if we don't increase their hazard pay by fifteen percent."
Seth didn't look up from his plate. "Victor is lazy. Tell him to handle the union stewards himself. If they strike, replace them with the guys from the South Side docks."
"Victor tried that last month," Angelo chuckled smoothly, cutting into his steak. "The South Side crew wants twenty percent. We're getting squeezed on both sides, brother. Grant Mercer reviewed the numbers this afternoon—he says our liquidity is down four million this quarter."
Seth paused, his fork stopping halfway to his mouth. His sharp grey eyes flicked up to meet Angelo's. "Four million? Where did it go?"
"Logistics, security upgrades, the payoffs for the city council inquiry after the shootout in Cicero," Angelo listed effortlessly, waving a dismissive hand. "You've been focused on keeping the rival crews from taking our territory, Seth. Leave the financial details to Grant and me. That's why your uncle trusted us."
Seth ran a hand over his face, a deep line of stress carving itself between his dark brows. "Fine. But I want a full audit on Grant's accounts by Friday. I don't like feeling blind."
"Of course," Angelo smiled warmly, reaching over to pat Seth’s forearm with genuine, paternal affection. "I'll have Grant prepare the books personally."
Fiona quietly set her fork down. The soft sound of porcelain hitting silver made both men glance down the long table toward her.
Seth frowned slightly, as if suddenly remembering his wife was in the room. "Is something wrong, Fiona?"
"The salmon is very good," Fiona said softly, her voice modest and small. "Thank you for asking, Seth."
Angelo offered her a patronizing, pitying smile—the same smile he gave to helpless children and stray dogs. "It's nice to see you coming out of the west wing, Mrs. Basil. The house has been far too quiet since the wedding."
"I enjoy the quiet," Fiona replied, her hazel eyes fixing onto Angelo's handsome face with absolute, unreadable stillness. "It gives me time to read."
"Ah, yes. Books," Angelo smirked, taking another sip of wine. "A wonderful escape from the harsh reality of the world."
"I was reading a fascinating book on maritime logistics yesterday," Fiona said, her tone completely innocent, conversational, almost naive. "It was discussing how easy it is to hide shell companies within secondary fuel tariffs at deep-water ports."
Angelo froze. The wine glass stopped inches from his lips.
Seth turned his gaze back to Fiona, his brows narrowing into a sharp, piercing stare. "What did you say?"
"Oh, just a book on port management," Fiona said, tilting her head with a look of mild embarrassment. "My father used to keep old ledgers from Hayes Freight. I remember seeing how fuel tariffs were listed under secondary code 404-B. When a company wants to move four million dollars out of an active account without triggering an automatic audit, they usually file it as a 'berth maintenance surcharge' under that code. It takes six months for federal auditors to catch it."
Silence descended over the dining room like a heavy steel blanket.
Angelo’s warm, handsome face went completely rigid. The relaxed, confident posture he maintained evaporated, replaced by a sudden, microscopic tightening around his eyes and jawline.
Seth looked between his wife and his closest adviser. "Code 404-B?"
"I... I wouldn't know about technical cargo codes, Seth," Angelo said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its smooth charm. He laughed nervously, though the sound died quickly in his throat. "Fiona’s father ran a small trucking firm. Deep-water port tariffs are entirely different—"
"Actually," Fiona interrupted gently, her voice as smooth as cream, "my father ran the fuel distribution for Pier 22 for fifteen years. I wrote those ledgers myself when I was twenty. The system hasn't changed."
She picked up her linen napkin and dabbed her mouth.
"If Grant Mercer told you four million dollars vanished into security upgrades, Seth," Fiona added, looking straight into her husband's icy grey eyes, "you might want to check if Pier 22’s berth maintenance account was accessed from an IP address in Zurich yesterday morning. That's usually where men like Grant keep their exit funds."
Seth stood up slowly. His massive frame seemed to fill the room, a aura of lethal, terrifying energy radiating from him so intensely that the air felt thin.
He didn't yell. He didn't slam his hand on the table. He simply stared down at Angelo.
"Angelo," Seth said, his baritone voice dangerously quiet. "Where is Grant right now?"
"He... he should be at his office downtown," Angelo stammered, his silvered elegance completely shattered. "Seth, listen to me, she's a girl who read a few old papers! She doesn't know what she's—"
"Vane!" Seth roared toward the hallway.
The double doors swung open instantly, and Seth’s head of security stepped inside, his hand already resting on his sidearm. "Boss?"
"Bring Grant Mercer to the basement of the downtown warehouse in thirty minutes," Seth ordered, his eyes never leaving Angelo's pale face. "And bring his private laptop."
"Right away, Boss," Vane said, disappearing down the hall.
Seth picked up his suit jacket, sliding his heavy arms into the sleeves. He stopped at the edge of the table, turning his gaze toward Fiona.
For two months, he had viewed her as an inconvenient burden—a heavyset, silent woman forced upon him by a dead debtor, someone to be hidden away in the west wing to avoid public embarrassment.
Now, as he looked at her sitting calmly at the end of the table, her hazel eyes cool, sharp, and entirely unbothered by the storm she had just unleashed, a strange, electric chill ran down his spine.
"Fiona," Seth said, his voice carrying a strange new edge of dark curiosity.
"Yes, Seth?"
"Come with me."
Angelo gasped. "Seth, you can't bring her into family business! She's an outsider!"
Seth didn't even look at Angelo. He kept his eyes locked on his heavyset bride, extending one broad, calloused hand toward her.
"She just found four million dollars I didn't know was missing," Seth said softly. "She’s coming."
Fiona stood up deliberately, smoothing down her dark green dress. She didn't look at Angelo, whose hands were now visibly shaking as he clutched his wine glass. She walked down the length of the long table and placed her hand in Seth’s.
May you like
His grip was warm, rough, and solid. For the first time since their wedding day, Seth Basil didn't look through her.
He looked right at her. And for the first time, he was terrified of what he saw.
