My Boss Took Me To A Mafia Summit As A Joke — He Didn’t Know I Was Hiding From A $10 Million Bounty

Part 1

People think power in the underworld roars.

It doesn’t.

Sometimes it sits quietly in the corner pouring your scotch, completely ignored, until the day a 250-pound enforcer makes the wrong move.

Dan Moretti did not look twice at the people who served him.

In his world, attention was a currency reserved strictly for threats, rivals, and beautiful distractions.

Everyone else was simply furniture.

I was by all accounts the most unassuming piece of furniture in his mansion.

I had been hired two years ago as a personal assistant.

I was twenty-six, with mousy brown hair I kept pulled back in a severe, low bun.

I favored oversized knit sweaters, sensible flat shoes, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses that constantly slipped down the bridge of my nose.

When Dan held meetings with his lieutenants in the sprawling, mahogany-paneled library of his estate, I was always there.

I stood flush against the far wall, a shadow blending into the leather-bound encyclopedias.

I held a silver tray of espresso or a digital tablet with his daily itinerary.

I never spoke unless spoken to.

I never made eye contact.

When the men in the room made crude jokes, I didn’t blush.

I simply didn’t react.

When guns were slammed onto the heavy oak desk, I didn’t flinch.

Dan simply assumed I was too naive or too deeply terrified to process the reality of my environment.

His right-hand man had mentioned it once over a glass of bourbon.

He had said I was like a ghost, that he had walked into the study and hadn’t even realized I was standing there for ten minutes.

Dan had barely looked up from his ledger.

He told him that as long as his coffee was hot and his meetings were scheduled, he didn’t care if I haunted the place.

Dan thought quiet was safe.

That quiet was not safe.

Quiet was merely waiting.

The fragile peace in Boston had begun to fracture in the brutal cold of late November.

The Romano family had grown tired of their territorial boundaries.

Craig Romano was an old-school brute who believed fear was the only valid form of leadership.

He had started bleeding into Moretti territory.

It started small, a hijacked shipment of imported silks here, a roughed-up bookie there.

But Craig had recently handed the reins of his street operations to his nephew, Tyler Romano.

Tyler was a monster of a man, standing six-foot-four and built like a brick wall.

He was fueled by a volatile cocktail of cocaine and unearned arrogance.

He lacked his uncle’s cautious cunning.

Tyler wanted war, and he wanted the glory of taking down the untouchable Dan Moretti.

The tension reached a boiling point when three of Dan’s men were found beaten to near death outside a warehouse.

Dan knew that a retaliatory strike would plunge the city into a bloodbath, drawing the eyes of the feds.

He preferred surgical precision.

He preferred to cut the head off the snake in a room where nobody was watching.

A sit-down was arranged.

The location was the Obsidian, a high-end, supposedly neutral private club.

The terms were strict.

Dan and Craig were allowed to bring only one man each.

No weapons drawn.

It was to be a civilized discussion to redraw the lines and pull Tyler back by his leash.

On the evening of the meeting, an unprecedented winter storm battered the city.

The storm dumped a foot of snow on the streets, gridlocking traffic.

The intended muscle for the night was T-boned by a skidding semi-truck on the expressway.

He survived, but with fractured ribs and a totaled SUV, he wasn’t making the sit-down.

Dan stood in the foyer of his mansion, adjusting the cuffs of his bespoke charcoal suit.

His jaw was tight with irritation.

Going in alone to meet the Romanos was practically inviting an assassination attempt, even on neutral ground.

I stood near the coat check, holding his cashmere overcoat.

I was wearing a plain, tailored gray dress that went past my knees.

Dan barked an order to call the club and postpone the meeting.

I mildly informed him that they were already there.

I told him that if he canceled now, Tyler would take it as a sign of weakness.

I mentioned that Tyler had already been boasting to his men that Dan was afraid.

Dan paused, his dark eyes narrowing as he finally, truly looked at me.

He asked how I would know what Tyler Romano was boasting about.

I adjusted my slipping glasses.

I smoothly replied that I monitored their known associates’ encrypted chatter as part of my itinerary risk assessment.

Dan let out a harsh breath, running a hand through his dark hair.

He said he couldn’t walk into a room with Craig and that rabid dog Tyler without a second.

He said the optics were terrible.

I told him to take me.

Dan actually laughed, a cold, humorless sound.

He asked what I was going to do, offer them an espresso while they put a bullet in his kneecap.

My voice was entirely devoid of emotion as I pointed out the terms of the meeting.

The terms stated he was allowed one person to accompany him, not specifically a bodyguard.

I explained that walking in with his personal assistant sent a clearer message than walking in with a gun thug.

It would tell them he did not view them as a threat.

It would tell them this was merely a business transaction to him, an administrative errand.

Dan stared at me.

The logic was surprisingly sound.

It was an ultimate display of arrogance, bringing a meek, bespectacled girl to a mob summit.

It would infuriate Tyler and confuse Craig.

Dan agreed, turning toward the door.

He ordered me to keep my mouth shut, stay in the corner, and whatever happened, not to scream.

I softly promised him I never screamed.

The Obsidian was entirely empty, save for the bartender polishing glasses in the front.

The VIP room in the back was suffocated by a heavy silence.

The walls were lined with dark velvet, soaking up the ambient sound and making the space feel like a vacuum.

Dan sat at the head of a long marble table.

Craig Romano sat opposite him, looking like a crumbling Roman emperor in a flashy, outdated pinstripe suit.

Standing directly behind Craig was Tyler.

The nephew was practically vibrating with aggressive energy.

His massive fists clenched and unclenched at his sides.

He wore a tight black turtleneck that emphasized his steroid-inflated muscles.

I stood exactly where Dan had ordered me, in the back corner near the door.

I kept a leather portfolio pressed to my chest.

I looked entirely out of place, a fragile sparrow trapped in a cage with wolves.

Dan’s voice was a low, dangerous purr as he addressed Craig about his hospitalized men.

He completely ignored Tyler.

Craig chuckled, a wet, rattling sound, making excuses about friction over transit routes.

Dan coolly reminded him that Craig had signed those transit rights over three years ago.

Dan gestured vaguely toward my corner without looking at me, asking if he needed his assistant to pull up the ledger.

Tyler scoffed loudly, stepping forward.

He dismissed the old paperwork and accused Dan of getting soft.

He mocked Dan for sitting up in his ivory tower and bringing a little secretary to a sit-down.

Tyler’s eyes, blown wide with chemical aggression, locked onto me.

He sneered, asking if Dan couldn’t find a man brave enough to walk in with him.

Craig weakly warned his nephew to be quiet.

Tyler snapped back, pacing around the side of the table and moving closer to Dan.

He said he was tired of this arrogant prick walking in with a skirt, thinking he was untouchable.

Dan remained perfectly still, his hands folded on the marble table.

He warned Tyler that one step closer would ensure he left the room in a customized urn.

Tyler let out a barking laugh, pointing out that Dan was unarmed.

He reminded Dan that they had all been patted down at the door, and his right-hand man wasn’t there to save him.

Tyler’s drug-addled brain was looking for maximum leverage, a way to humiliate the great Dan Moretti.

His gaze landed back on me.

I was standing completely still, watching the exchange with blank eyes behind my glasses.

Tyler growled that he wanted to see how cool Dan was when things got messy.

Before Craig could stop him, Tyler lunged.

He didn’t lunge at Dan.

He bypassed the table entirely and charged the corner where I stood.

He intended to grab me by the throat, completely unaware of what I truly was.