Chapter 3 - THE PROPOSITION IN THE ALLEY
The rain was beginning to turn to sleet, tiny icy needles stinging my face. I stood trembling in the alleyway, staring at the most dangerous man in Chicago as if he had spoken a foreign language.
“An offer?” I echoed, my voice shaking.
“My accountant of twelve years had a sudden, unfortunate heart attack last week,” Rowan said smoothly, ignoring the weather entirely. “He left behind a mountain of tangled offshore assets, legitimate front companies, and a ledger that requires someone with a meticulous eye and absolute discretion.”
I stared at him, my mind spinning. “You want me to be your accountant? I didn't finish my degree! I dropped out when my mom got sick!”
“You completed three years of advanced corporate finance with a 4.0 average before you left,” Rowan countered, his gaze unwavering. “And more importantly, you know what it’s like to be invisible. You know how to keep your head down, and you don't ask unnecessary questions.”
“I bake bread!” I hissed, gesturing wildly to my flour-dusted apron. “I spend my nights covered in yeast and sugar! I don't launder money!”
“I don't need you to launder money, Mave. I need you to balance the books of the legitimate half of my empire so the federal investigators stop sniffing around my shipping manifests,” Rowan said, his voice dropping into a register that brook no argument. “The salary is ninety thousand a year. Full medical benefits. All your debts—student loans, utility bills, back rent—paid in full by midnight.”
The numbers echoed in my head like church bells.
Ninety thousand dollars.
My entire life had been a grinding, exhausting battle against arithmetic. Every single day was a cruel math problem where subtraction was the only operation allowed. Rent minus groceries minus utilities equaled despair.
Ninety thousand dollars meant I could buy groceries without checking the price tags. It meant my mother could afford her physical therapy. It meant I could breathe.
“And if I say no?” I whispered, testing the boundaries of the cage.
Rowan’s expression didn't change. He simply slid the fifty-dollar bill back into his pocket.
“Then you go back inside, finish your shift, and pray your electric company forgets to cut your power tomorrow morning. And I find someone else.”
He turned halfway toward his car, giving me the choice.
It wasn't much of a choice. It was a cliff, and he was offering a parachute that might be rigged with explosives, or might actually open.
“When do I start?” I asked.
Rowan stopped. A faint, approval-filled shadow crossed his harsh features.
“Tomorrow at 8:00 a.m. My driver will pick you up at your apartment.”
He pulled a heavy, old-fashioned brass key from his pocket and tossed it casually through the air. I caught it by pure reflex, my fingers closing around the cold metal.
“What’s this?”
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“The side entrance to the Vale Building downtown. Penthouse floor. Don't be late.”
Without another word, Rowan stepped back beneath the giant enforcer’s umbrella and climbed into the sleek black town car. The door clicked shut with the heavy, reassuring thud of a bank vault, and the vehicle glided silently out of the alley, leaving me alone with the falling sleet and a brass key that felt heavier than lead.
