Page 9 of Indigo Deception
"Ricardo is pushing to cut twenty percent of our workforce in Malaysia." His voice is tight. "Says it's the only way to make the acquisition profitable."
I've read about Thomas Ricardo, the notorious corporate raider Angelo brought in as CFO six months ago. His specialty is gutting companies for short-term profit.
"And you disagree," I observe, watching him closely.
Angelo runs a hand through his dark hair. "Those people have families. The factory is the primary employer in that region. Twenty percent layoffs would devastate the local economy."
My eyebrows furrows. This doesn't match the profile I've been given of Angelo Bellanti, ruthless mafia heir who values profit above all else.
"What are you going to do?" I ask.
He looks up, his expression determined. "Find another way." He pulls his laptop closer. "Help me restructure the acquisition. There has to be a solution that doesn't involve mass layoffs."
For the next two hours, we work side by side, creating an alternative restructuring plan that preserves jobs while still meeting profit expectations.
I watch him make call after call—to union representatives, to local officials, to bankers willing to renegotiate terms. He fights for those workers with a ferocity that surprises me.
By midnight, my eyes are burning from staring at screens, but we've created a viable alternative that saves all but a handful of positions.When I finally look up, Angelo is watching me, his jacket discarded, sleeves rolled up exposing muscular forearms marked with the faintest scars.
"Done," I announce, sliding my tablet across to him.
He reviews my work in silence, his expression unreadable. After what feels like an eternity, he looks up.
"You're not what I expected."
"Sorry to disappoint," I reply automatically.
A genuine laugh escapes him—deep, unexpected. "Oh, you haven't disappointed me, Little Auditor. Quite the opposite."
The nickname again. I should be annoyed—I am annoyed—but something in the way he says it this time makes warmth spread through my chest. I immediately suffocate it. I can't afford to feel flattered by a target's approval. I'm here to gather evidence, not validation.
I'm about to speak when his phone vibrates across the desk. He silences it without looking.
"Your phone's been buzzing non-stop for the past thirty minutes," I observe.
He waves dismissively. "Board members are panicking over nothing. They do this every quarter."
"Ah, so they're like toddlers having tantrums but with expensive suits and stock options."
His lips quirk. "Exactly like that. Though I'd say more like kindergartners fighting over the last cookie."
"Let me guess," I say before I can stop myself, "you're the teacher who hides in the supply closet with the real cookie jar."
His phone buzzes. He glances at it, frowning. "I need to take this. Wait here."
I nod, watching as he steps into his private office. Through the glass walls, I see him pace, his expression darkening into something dangerous that sends an involuntary shiver down my spine.
This is the real Angelo Bellanti—not the charming businessman, but the mafia prince who destroys lives with a keystroke.
When he returns, the mask is back in place, but there's a coldness in his eyes that wasn't there before. I note the tension in his shoulders—perfect intel for Kaif. This would be the ideal moment to plant the surveillance software, but I haven't found the right opening yet.
"Sorry about that." He runs a hand through his hair, messing it up in a way that shouldn't be attractive but somehow is. "Where were we?"
"Finishing up," I say, gathering my papers. "It's late."
"One more thing before you go," he says, sitting on the edge of his desk. "The Jensen account. Tell me what you think."
I hesitate. The Jensen account is notorious within Bellanti Holdings. It's a client with suspicious cash flows and questionable business practices. If I were truly a risk consultant, I'd have flagged it immediately.
