The Mafia King Came to Seize Her Company, but When the Bruised Accountant Collapsed Into His Arms,

Part 2: “That depends on whether they remain useful.”

“There are nearly four thousand people working for this company.”

“Then four thousand people should pray you give a convincing presentation.”

Karen stared at him, feeling something cold settle beneath her fear.

Richard had spent years calling himself a job creator. He shook hands with drivers, posed beside scholarship recipients, and appeared in commercials about family values. Yet he was prepared to destroy thousands of lives to save his own.

“You won’t get away with it,” she said.

His hand closed around her injured side.

The pressure was not hard, but it was placed precisely over the deepest bruise.

Karen gasped and folded toward him.

“I already have,” he murmured. “If you reveal anything in that room, I will make certain your mother is charged as an accomplice. The accounts carrying her name are already prepared.”

He released her.

Karen gripped the sink before she fell.

Richard straightened his tie. “They’re waiting.”

After he left, Karen stood alone for several seconds, fighting nausea. She could no longer save herself merely by surviving the presentation. Richard had constructed a financial trap around her mother and thousands of innocent employees.

The thick leather binder waited on the countertop.

Inside it were the false reports Richard had forced her to complete. Hidden beneath the back cover, however, was one authentic document she had printed before he confiscated her phone.

It contained a list of account names, transfer dates, and an internal access phrase attached to a restricted server called Blue Harbor.

Karen did not know what Blue Harbor contained. She only knew that Richard had panicked when he realized she had seen its name.

She slid the binder beneath her arm and walked toward the boardroom.

Every step hurt.

Every breath hurt more.

But fear was no longer the only thing moving her forward.

The executive boardroom occupied the top floor of the Davies-Cumberland tower near Rittenhouse Square. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked a gray afternoon, and rain streaked the glass above the city’s crowded rooftops. The room was kept cold enough to preserve flowers, though the tension surrounding the long table made Karen’s skin feel feverish.

Dominic Rainer sat at the far end.

She had seen photographs, most of them taken from a distance. None prepared her for the physical reality of him.

He was forty, perhaps forty-one, with dark hair touched by silver at the temples and a face built from severe angles. His charcoal suit was perfectly fitted across shoulders that appeared too broad for an ordinary office chair. A faint scar crossed one eyebrow, and another disappeared beneath the collar of his shirt.

His hands rested on the table.

They were enormous, rough-knuckled, and marked by old scars that no expensive watch could disguise.

To Dominic’s right sat Matteo Ross, his chief adviser and legal strategist, a lean man with watchful gray eyes. On his left was Claire Donovan, an acquisitions attorney known for dismantling corporate fraud cases before they reached trial. Two financial analysts and several security officers stood near the glass wall.

Richard entered ahead of Karen with his confident smile restored.

“Mr. Rainer, thank you for your patience,” he said. “This is Karen Harris, our director of internal audit. No one knows the financial structure of Davies-Cumberland better than she does.”

Dominic’s gaze moved from Richard to Karen.

It did not slide over her body dismissively, nor linger with crude curiosity. He studied her the way a man might study a locked door while deciding whether it concealed danger or someone asking to be rescued.

“Ms. Harris,” he said.

His voice was deep and quiet, carrying more authority than Richard’s loudest speeches.

“Mr. Rainer.”

“You appear unwell.”

Richard laughed too quickly. “Karen has always been dedicated to the point of exhaustion.”

Dominic did not look away from her. “That was not a question directed at you.”

Richard’s smile stiffened.

Karen felt the first dangerous spark of hope.

It frightened her more than despair because hope could make a person reckless.

“I’m capable of presenting the report,” she said carefully.

Dominic’s eyes narrowed. “That is also not what I asked.”

Richard’s hand settled on the back of Karen’s chair. To anyone else, it might have appeared reassuring. His fingertips pressed into the fabric near her injured ribs.

Karen forced herself not to flinch.