International logistics

International logistics.

Billions in annual transactions.

My managing partner, David Miller, looked ready to have a heart attack.

“The CEO is attending personally,” he whispered.

“So?”

“So?”

He wiped his forehead.

“Clarissa, these people could change our Chicago practice.”

“Then maybe stop sweating on the conference table.”

He shot me a look.

I opened my laptop.

The doors opened.

Three men entered first.

Then him.

My stomach dropped so hard I almost felt it hit the carpet.

The man from the bar.

Except now he was wearing navy.

A gold Rolex.

No softness anywhere.

David rushed forward.

“Mr. Romano.”

Romano.

Oh, no.

Dominic Romano.

Reclusive billionaire.

Port contracts.

Political connections.

A last name that had appeared in Chicago newspaper archives beside phrases like federal investigation and alleged organized-crime ties.

Dominic ignored David’s hand.

His eyes found me.

Then he smiled.

Slowly.

“Ms. Robinson.”

David looked between us.

“You’ve met?”

Dominic walked around the table.

“We’ve been introduced.”

Heat crawled up my neck.

I kept my face blank.

“Good morning, Mr. Romano.”

He stopped directly across from me.

“Did you sleep well?”

David blinked.

I wanted the floor to open.

Instead, I slid a financial packet toward Dominic.

“I slept perfectly.”

His mouth twitched.

Liar.

He knew.

I knew he knew.

“Excellent,” I said. “Then perhaps we can discuss your preliminary statements.”

He sat.

For the next hour, I became the version of myself nobody at that bar had seen.

I challenged his revenue assumptions.

Flagged duplicated vendor codes.

Asked why two subsidiaries carried almost identical debt facilities.

Dominic answered calmly.

But he watched me.

Constantly.

Finally, he closed the folder.

“I want Ms. Robinson handling the audit personally.”

David nearly levitated.

“Absolutely.”

“From my office.”

I stopped writing.

David didn’t.

“Of course.”

“No intermediaries.”

“Done.”

I looked at David.

“You’re agreeing awfully fast.”

His pen froze.

Dominic leaned back.

“That concern you?”

“Yes.”

That made him smile again.

“Good.”

I gathered my papers.

I should have realized then that I was already standing in the middle of something much bigger than a corporate audit.

Instead, I followed Dominic Romano toward the elevators.

And behind me, David Miller quietly shut the boardroom door.

Like a man locking me inside.

PART 2: Dirty numbers revealed exactly what kind of man I kissed

By Thursday, I had stopped pretending Dominic Romano was normal.

His office occupied most of the seventy-second floor.

Glass.

Steel.

Lake Michigan spread beneath us like dark blue metal.

Security cameras covered every hallway.

His assistants spoke quietly.

Nobody entered his private office without permission.

Nobody except me.

Dominic never mentioned the kiss in front of employees.

He just noticed things.

The office was freezing Monday.

Tuesday morning, a cashmere wrap appeared on my chair.

I skipped lunch Wednesday.

Thirty minutes later, his chef put chicken, roasted vegetables, and pasta beside my laptop.

“I didn’t order this.”

Dominic glanced up from his phone.

“I did.”

“I’m capable of feeding myself.”

“Evidence suggests otherwise.”

Annoying bastard.

Worse, I smiled.

Then the numbers got ugly.

I found overlapping invoices tied to a concrete company in Cicero.

Payments moved through holding companies with ownership records that seemed intentionally blurred.

Nothing about it looked accidental.

I stayed late.

Rain hammered the windows.

Chicago traffic glowed seventy floors below.

I printed one ledger and walked toward Dominic’s office.

His door was cracked.

I heard his voice.

“You tell him twenty-four hours.”

I stopped.

Dominic stood near the window with a phone pressed against his ear.

“No more favors. No more delays.”

His tone was nothing like the man who ordered me lunch.

“If he tries to bury the port agreement, release the photographs to his attorney.”

Silence.

“No violence.”

Another pause.

“I said no violence. We destroy his leverage, not his family.”

My stomach tightened anyway.

This wasn’t corporate negotiation.

This was coercion.

Power.

Old-school Chicago pressure wrapped in a Tom Ford suit.

I stepped backward.

The ledger slipped from my fingers.

Slap.

Dominic stopped talking.

Slowly, he turned.

His eyes moved from me to the paper.

Then back.

He ended the call.

No shouting.

That somehow made it worse.

He walked toward me.

I didn’t move.

Dominic bent, picked up the ledger, and studied the page.

“You found Cicero.”

My mouth was dry.

“Yes.”

“How much do you understand?”

“Enough to know this isn’t an ordinary audit.”

He watched me for a long second.