The numbers on the screen couldn’t be right. I didn’t want them to be right. I’d willed them to change before running the model for the third time, but they didn’t. I’d wanted absolute certainty I hadn’t made a mistake, so I’d kicked off the third simulation on the same data set before I’d left the office and let it run overnight.
But I hadn’t made a mistake; the model returned the same unfortunate results. A third time.
It was Friday morning, and without all the distractions of permits, breakfast runs, and unexpected visitors, I’d finished my model late Wednesday evening, staying well past the end of the workday, consumed by my progress and the prospect of finally getting answers. I’d not realized how late it was until my phone buzzed with a text message. 9:00 p.m.
I’d kicked off the simulation, unsure it would even complete. When I’d arrived at the office Thursday morning, my stomach turned over. It had completed all right.
I reached for my water bottle and drank, but it did nothing to combat the hit of adrenaline speeding my heartrate.
I’d hoped the results were an error on my part. A wrong parameter setting. A botched assumption. Something. Anything. But I’d double-checked my work and couldn’t find a mistake. And if there was one thing I knew, I knew my algorithms. The math and the modeling approach represented my life’s work. They were rock solid. So, I’d run the simulation again. And again.
Marco was right; someone was stealing from him. He’d told me multiple times he’d doubted it was the economy, and I realized then I’d never really believed him. I did now. The facts stared back at me as clear as the bright winter sky shining above the Commons. I sat back in my chair, looked out the window, and chewed the side of my fingernail.
Funny thing about the real world—events in the real world came with real consequences. Inside the confines of my old office, I’d churned over data sent in by a third party with whom I had no connection, no vested interest. My attachment to the results approached mild fascination at best. This might make a good paper. I was a distant observer, detached from the work and focused on one thing—publishing my next breakthrough in financial modeling.
But these results? These results had meaning. These results impacted lives. These results were personal.
Marco would be furious, and the pain of betrayal would fan his fiery anger into a blazing inferno. My heart broke for him, but I knew what I had to do. I slugged down more water and picked up my phone.
I printed the report, grabbed my things, and headed downstairs to wait for my ride. The hurt and anger I was about to cause tied my stomach in knots. But I had wanted to experience the real world, and in the real world, results had consequences.
* * *
A man in a gray suit and tan trench coat leaned against the lamppost outside the entrance of Terme di Boston. I tried to ignore him, but his eyes were fixed on me; I felt his unrelenting stare as keenly as the bracing cold.
“Dr. Barone,” he said.
“Yes?” I narrowed my eyes, confused as to who he was and how he knew my name.
His dirty-blond hair shifted wildly under a gust of wind. He reached into his suit jacket, pulled out a leather wallet, and flipped it open, holding it next to his face. The letters FBI blared a silent warning. My coat and gloves were suddenly too hot despite the winter wind.
“My name is Agent Johnson. Do you have a moment?” he asked and flipped the ID closed, filing it away in his suit jacket.
“I…” I swallowed, trying to jumpstart the connection between my brain and my mouth, but I’d gone full deer in the headlights. I stood there stunned and silent.
“You have quite the resume, Dr. Barone.”
My eyes darted to the entrance of Terme and one of Marco’s security guards. He watched us from behind sunglasses, his face impassive.
“Uh… Thank you?”
“Must have been a big adjustment coming to work for DEI after being in academia for so long.”
He smiled the kind of smile you’d expect from someone who wants you to think they’re on your side. Someone who wants you to feel comfortable sharing war stories. Someone who wants you to admit something you don’t want to admit.
My brain snapped into gear. Do Not Name DEI as Your Current Employer. Marco’s NDA rescued me from paralysis.
“I’m sorry. I’m not at liberty to discuss my employment status.” The words came out more stilted than they’d sounded in my head, but I was damn proud of myself for saying anything at all.
Agent Johnson’s mouth quirked as if he was trying to force his sneer into a smile. “There’s no harm in discussing your employment, but there is harm in obstructing justice.”
My temper stirred. I stepped forward and lifted my chin. “That sounded a lot like a threat, Agent Johnson. You’re fishing, but I’m not taking your bait. Now, kindly get lost.”
The black Range Rover pulled up to the curb. Paulie jumped out and met us where we stared each other down. He offered his arm to me and a death glare to Agent Johnson. I wrapped my shaking fingers around his arm, and he led me to the car.
“We’ll talk soon, Dr. Barone,” Agent Johnson called after us.
I ignored him, climbed into the backseat, and stared out the window in silent shock as we made our way to the North End.
* * *
Vesuvio looked different in the late afternoon. No inviting glow from behind tinted windows. No sexy, erupting sign. Just muted black trim outlining the windows and door of an old brick building topped by a dull, red marquee. Austere and functional instead of flashy and glamorous.
Paulie led me to the back of the building and up a set of wooden stairs to a second story landing where one of Marco’s sunglassed sentinels stood guard. He punched a code into a panel on the left of the steel door. It beeped, turned the panel light green, and with a click and a buzz, the door unlocked. He opened it and ushered us inside.
The upstairs of Vesuvio looked like what I imagined the downstairs looked like during the day. The mahogany floors that had appeared so sleek and black at night were scratched and dented, and the wine-colored leather of the booths was cracked and worn. A carbon copy of the downstairs bar sat directly above its partner, stacked with the same top-shelf wine and liquor.
The difference? Six card tables occupied the space between the bar and the booths, and two pool tables replaced the high tops around the fireplace. Televisions were strategically placed in every corner of the room and at each end of the bar, and a stripper pole was centered in front of the benches along the back wall.
I was so out of my element.
A bartender leaned against the counter watching soccer. Two more security guards stood on either side of the front wall behind the pool tables. And in the center of the room, Marco, Vito, Luca, and two men I recognized from the last time I’d been to Vesuvio played poker. Marco and Luca smoked cigars, and a bottle of whiskey sat among a chaos of cards, chips, and stacks of cash.
Vito’s head snapped up when we walked past the top of the spiral staircase. He lifted his chin, and each man at the table trained their dark eyes on where I stood clutching my printout in a shaking hand.
I waved awkwardly, shifting my weight between my feet. Understanding and compassion tugged at the corner of Marco’s lips. He stood, walked over to me, and placed a hand on my hip and a kiss on my forehead.
“I missed you,” he whispered, and my heart melted along with my nerves.
He introduced me to Angelo and Carmine, then led me down a short hallway beyond the pool tables. He rapped twice on the door before opening it. A woman with bleach blonde hair in sweats and a tank top looked up from where she sat on a couch watching a big screen TV. Marco jerked his head toward the door, and she turned off the TV and scooted out of the room giving me a warm smile as she passed.
“We can talk in here,” he said and shut the door.
Even though I knew no one else was in there, my eyes darted around the room. We were talking about corporate larceny, and I’d achieved new levels of paranoia after my encounter with Agent Johnson.
“It’s okay,” he said and twirled a finger. “It’s soundproofed. And swept for bugs every week.”
My eyebrows reached for my hairline, and I shook my head in disbelief.
“An FBI agent stopped me outside Terme while I was waiting for Paulie.” The words flew from my lungs, and my voice trembled in their wake. An ache formed in my throat, emotion threatening to spill out, a delayed reaction to an encounter that had left me rattled and confused.
“Cazzo,” Marco swore and ran a hand down his face. “I could strangle Vinnie right now,” he growled.
I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out.
“Vieni qui,” he said and opened his arms.
I went to him, and he wrapped his arms around me and kissed the top of my head.
“That’s why he was there,” I whispered, more to myself than Marco. “Because of Vinnie.” I didn’t want to entertain another explanation.
He ran his hand up and down my back. “You okay?” he asked, voice gentle and concerned.
I let out a tremendous, shuddering breath, rested my head on his chest, and relaxed into his arms. “Yeah, I’m fine. Now.”
The irony that I was taking comfort in the arms of the man who was the reason for the FBI agent was not lost on me. I didn’t care. I nuzzled my face into his chest and breathed in the safety of his scent.
“He didn’t harass you, did he?” Marco grumbled.
“No.”
“Good.”
“He was fishing for information.”
“That’s what he does.”
“I think he was trying to intimidate me.”
He squeezed me closer. “That’s also what he does.”
“I told him to get lost.”
His chest rumbled with laughter. “Mia bellissima Anna. Good girl.”
I indulged myself a moment longer, taking comfort in his closeness and letting it calm my nerves. But I’d come there for a reason, and it was time to rip off the Band-Aid.
I pulled back and held up my printout. “It’s here,” I said and turned the first page toward him so he could see the chart. “Proof.”
His eyes darkened. “Proof of what? What am I looking at?”
I pointed at the chart. “This graph distills the results of the first Monte Carlo analysis I ran on the model of your European office. The black points represent expected profits under various scenarios, and the red line represents your actual profits.” I glanced up at him.
“For the past… year, the black points are all above the red line.”
“Exactly. The model predicts are consistently higher than your actuals. The previous year, the points surround the line, see? Those are normal variations—stochastic noise—deviations you’d expect in this type of simulation. But then about a year ago, the red line started to move away from the point cloud in a meaningful way. Slowly at first, but uniform behavior like that isn’t noise. That’s true financial movement.” I dropped the papers and looked up. “Someone is stealing from you, Marco.”
He tensed, taut as a bowstring. An ominous energy surrounded him, made worse by a trick of the light. It highlighted his eyes, and for a moment, made them look like they glowed a devilish crimson. “You’re sure,” he ground out through clenched teeth.
I nodded and lifted the papers. “Look here. The movement is even more pronounced now. There’s been a serious gap for the past six months.”
“Why the growth?”
“No idea.” I dropped my arm and the papers to my side. “My guess? Whoever’s doing this figured you hadn’t noticed. Thought they could get away with more. Or…” I chewed my lip, not wanting to vocalize my rampant paranoia.
“Or what?”
“Or they wanted to expedite an endgame. Whatever that is.”
The fury in his eyes and the pain contorting his handsome face punched me in my chest and bruised my heart. Despite his conviction that it hadn’t been the economy, Marco hadn’t believed someone he trusted was stealing from him. Not really. And the truth was devastating.
“The model output a lot of data. I haven’t gone through it all yet, not in detail. Once I do, I can run additional simulations to characterize the drain. I’ll start on Monday, but it’ll take time before I can nail down exactly how this is happening. But I—I thought you’d want to know.”
He turned away and rested his hands on his hips. “Thank you,” he said quietly.
“I’m sorry, Marco.”
He looked over his shoulder and gave me a terse nod.
I waited in the strained silence, unable to imagine the thoughts and emotions racing through his head. Over the past few weeks, I’d come to understand how important his business and his staff were to him. He treated DEI like an extension of his family, and I’d just given him proof that one or more of his family members had stabbed him in the back. Right under the nose of someone he considered a son.
When he finally turned back to face me, he exercised his exacting control; he dropped his arms, rolled his shoulders, and relaxed his jaw and forehead.
The impenetrable Marco DeVita stood before me once again. He’d walk out of this room and join his COOs like nothing happened. But I knew the extent of anger and hurt he’d just caged. He was a powder keg, ready to blow, and I hoped for his sake, and theirs, none of them were the fuse.