Chapter 8 The First Audit

• Dominic
• My phone buzzes just after midnight.
• I don’t answer it at first. I’m standing on the balcony, watching Sloane laugh with someone I don’t recognize, her phone already in her hand, camera angled just right. She’s been drinking. The music is loud enough to carry, and I can already picture which neighbors are counting cars.
• Then my phone buzzes again.
• This time, I answer. “What?”
• “You’ve got a problem,” the voice says.
• “I always do,” I reply. “Be specific.”
• There’s a pause. “Your house is being talked about.”
• I close my eyes. “By who?”
• “People who notice,” he says. “And people who don’t like surprises.”
• My gaze goes back to Sloane. She’s draped across a chair now, laughing too hard at something that isn’t funny, legs bare, dress riding up like she wants it to. Someone snaps a photo. She doesn’t stop them.
• “What kind of talk?” I ask.
• “The kind that starts small and ends badly.”
• “Is this a threat?” I snap.
• “It’s a warning,” he says. “And you should take it seriously.”
• The line goes dead.
• I stand there longer than I should, phone still pressed to my ear, listening to nothing. Below me, the party keeps going. Music. Glass clinking. People who don’t belong acting like they do.
• Marisol would’ve shut this down before it started.
• The thought irritates me more than it should.
• I head inside, already dialing.
• “Sloane,” I say when she answers, breathless and laughing on the other end.
• “What?” she shouts over the noise.
• “End it,” I tell her. “Now.”
• “What? Why?”
• “Because I said so.”
• There’s a pause. Then a scoff. “You’re being dramatic.”
• She laughs. “Relax. It’s just people.”
• That’s the problem.
• I hang up without another word.
• The next call comes an hour later.
• This one I answer immediately.
• “There’s been a development,” my lawyer says, voice tight.
• I sit down. “Talk.”
• “Authorities showed up at one of the Morelli subsidiaries this evening.”
• My stomach drops. “Which one?”
• “Doesn’t matter,” he says. “They’re auditing.”
• I grip the arm of the chair. “For what?”
• “Financial discrepancies. Routing issues. Paperwork irregularities.”
• “That’s bullshit.”
• “Maybe,” he says. “But they’re asking the right questions.”
• I stand. “Who tipped them off?”
• “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
• I pace the room, anger sharpening with every step. “Lock everything down.”
• “I can’t,” he says. “Remember you don’t have access.”
• “You’re telling me I can’t even respond properly to an audit?” I snap.
• “I’m telling you we’re exposed,” he replies. “And until the ownership issue is resolved, we’re limited.”
• I hang up and throw the phone onto the couch.
• Outside, the music finally dies down. Cars start pulling away.
• I pour myself a drink and don’t bother sitting. My hands are shaking, just slightly.
• But this is heat.
• Real heat.
• The kind Marisol never brought to my door.
• No warnings in the middle of the night. Things ran clean. Quiet. Invisible.
• I thought that meant she was passive.
• I was wrong.
• Another message comes through. This one from a contact I don’t like hearing from.
• Your girl is loud. People noticed.
• I stare at the screen.
• Fix it.
• I look toward the hallway where Sloane disappears, still buzzing, still careless, still convinced she’s untouchable because she’s standing beside me.
• She has no idea what kind of world she stepped into.
• Marisol didn’t just keep my life organized.
• She kept it insulated.
• My phone vibrates again.
• One last message, this time from my lawyer.
• We traced the audit trigger.
• I type back immediately. Who?
• The reply comes slower than I like.
• Anonymous tip.
• My jaw tightens.
• There’s only one person I know who understands my systems well enough to know where pressure would hurt without destroying everything outright.
• Marisol.