A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

CHAPTER ONE: THE MISFIRE

Maya Russo was having the kind of day that belonged in a sitcom—the kind where the protagonist's life falls spectacularly apart in twenty-two minutes, only to be neatly resolved after a commercial break. But Maya's life wasn't a sitcom, commercial breaks didn't exist, and at this point, she'd gladly trade places with any fictional character who had writers ensuring their happy ending.

"Fired? You can't be serious." Maya stared at her soon-to-be ex-boss, Gretchen, who was examining her freshly manicured nails with more interest than she was showing in destroying Maya's career.

"It's not personal," Gretchen said, in a tone that suggested it was entirely personal. "We're downsizing the accounting department, and frankly, your... creative approach to the Richardson account was the final straw."

"Creative approach?" Maya sputtered. "I caught them laundering money! That's not creative—that's my job!"

Gretchen's smile tightened. "The Richardsons have been clients of this firm for twenty years. Your job was to organize their tax documents, not accuse them of federal crimes."

"So I'm being fired for doing my job too well?" Maya ran her hands through her dark curls, a nervous habit she'd never managed to break. "That's—that's ridiculous!"

"What's ridiculous is thinking an accounting firm wants an accountant with a hero complex." Gretchen slid a manila envelope across her glass desk. "Your severance package. Security will escort you to clear out your desk."

Forty minutes later, Maya stood on the rain-slicked sidewalk outside the gleaming skyscraper that had consumed five years of her life, holding a cardboard box containing a potted succulent, a "World's Okayest Accountant" mug (a gag gift from the office Secret Santa), and the shattered remains of her professional dignity.

Her phone buzzed with a text from her roommate, Zoe:

*EMERGENCY!!! THE RENT IS DUE TOMORROW, AND I'M SHORT. AGAIN. CAN U COVER ME? PROMISE TO PAY BACK NEXT WEEK!!! XOXO*

Maya stared at her phone as fat raindrops began pelting her box of workplace memorabilia. Perfect. Just perfect. Fired, soon-to-be broke, and now homeless when she inevitably couldn't cover both halves of their exorbitant Brooklyn rent.

"Hey, lady! Move it or lose it!" A delivery guy on a bike swerved around her, splashing dirty water onto her once-pristine white blouse.

That was it. The universe had officially declared war on Maya Russo, and she refused to go down without a fight—or at least without tequila.

Two hours and several ill-advised shots later, Maya found herself at The Red Door, a dive bar in a part of town her mother would describe as "asking to be featured on the evening news." The bartender, a burly man with more tattoos than visible skin, slid another shot toward her.

"From the gentleman at the end of the bar," he grunted.

Maya squinted through the dim lighting to see a man in a tailored suit that cost more than her monthly rent. He stood out in this establishment like a Rolls Royce at a monster truck rally. Dark hair, sharp jawline, the kind of presence that made the room feel smaller. He raised his tumbler of amber liquid in a silent toast.

"Tell him thanks but no thanks," Maya said, pushing the shot back. "I may be at rock bottom, but I'm not desperate enough to be some rich guy's charity case."

The bartender shrugged. "Your funeral."

Maya returned to nursing her drink, mentally calculating how long her savings would last if she slept in her car and showered at the gym. Her dismal math was interrupted by a presence beside her—the suit had moved.

"Most people don't turn down free drinks from Luca Ricci," he said, his voice a smooth baritone with the barest hint of an Italian accent.

"Most people aren't having the day I'm having," Maya replied without looking up. "And I don't know who Luca Ricci is so that name drop missed its mark."

To her surprise, he laughed—a genuine sound that crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Refreshing. You're either new in town or living under a rock."

"Born and raised in Brooklyn, so I guess it's the rock option." Maya finally turned to face him. Up close, he was even more striking—dark eyes that seemed to evaluate her worth with cool precision, lips curved in amusement. Danger radiated from him in waves, yet instead of triggering her fight-or-flight response, it sent a different kind of shiver down her spine.

"What brings a Brooklyn girl to a place like this on a Tuesday night, drinking like the world's ending?" he asked, claiming the stool beside her without invitation.

"Just celebrating a major life achievement," Maya said, raising her glass in a mock toast. "I got fired for being too ethical, my roommate is about to make us homeless, and I'm pretty sure this blouse is ruined. It's been a banner day for Maya Russo."

"Ethics." He said the word like he was testing an unfamiliar food. "Rare commodity these days. What exactly were these ethics worth to you?"

"Apparently, $63,452 a year plus dental, which, in retrospect, seems like a lousy price for my soul." Maya downed the rest of her drink, the alcohol burning a familiar path down her throat. "But hey, at least I can look myself in the mirror, even if that mirror might soon be in a homeless shelter."

Luca signaled the bartender for two more drinks. "What if I told you I might have a job opportunity for someone with... flexible ethics but firm principles?"

Maya snorted. "I'd say that's an oxymoron, and whatever you're selling, I'm not buying."

"Not selling. Offering." He slid a business card across the bar. Simple, elegant, with only his name and a phone number embossed in gold. "I run a family business. We need someone good with numbers and discreet with information. Someone who understands that sometimes the letter of the law and the spirit of justice don't always align."

Warning bells clanged in Maya's head, momentarily clearing the tequila fog. "Family business? Let me guess—waste management? Construction? Or is it importing olive oil these days?"

His smile turned predatory. "Smart girl. A bit of all three, among other ventures."

"You're actually sitting here offering me a job with the mob? Seriously?" Maya laughed, then stopped when his expression didn't change. "Oh my god, you're serious."

"The Ricci family has interests across New York. Legitimate interests," he emphasized, though the glint in his eye suggested otherwise. "We pay well, take care of our own, and contrary to what Hollywood would have you believe, we don't spend our days shooting people and hiding bodies."

"Just the occasional weekend, then?" Maya quipped before she could stop herself.

To her relief, Luca laughed again. "You've got spirit, Ms. Russo. And from what I saw at Antonio's restaurant last week, you've got skills too."

Maya froze. "What are you talking about?"

"Richardson Textiles. Money laundering operation, poorly concealed. You spotted it in what, two hours of reviewing their books?" Luca swirled his drink. "Antonio's nephew works at your firm. He mentioned an accountant was making waves about their biggest client. I got curious."

"You've been watching me?" Maya felt a chill that had nothing to do with her damp clothes.

"Evaluating a potential asset," he corrected smoothly. "The Richardsons have been cleaning money for the Gambino family for years. Not our territory, but noteworthy that you spotted what federal investigators have missed."

Maya's head spun, and not just from the alcohol. "This conversation can't be happening."

"But it is." Luca leaned closer, his cologne—something expensive and intoxicating—enveloping her. "Three times what you were making before. Health insurance that would make European countries jealous. A new apartment in a building I own, rent-free for the first six months."

"In exchange for...?"

"Your expertise. Your discretion. Your loyalty." He tapped the business card. "Think about it. Call me when you're ready to stop letting the world walk all over you, Maya Russo."

With that, he stood, dropped several large bills on the bar, and walked away. Maya stared after him, her heart racing with equal parts fear and something dangerously close to excitement.

"Lady," the bartender said, pulling her attention back. "Word of advice? Whatever he's offering, the price is always higher than you think."

Maya pocketed the business card, certain she would never use it. Absolutely certain.

Until her phone buzzed again:

*MAYA!!! LANDLORD CALLED. WE'RE BEING EVICTED IF RENT ISN'T PAID BY NOON TOMORROW!!! WHERE ARE YOU???*

The universe really was testing her today. Maya glanced toward the door where Luca Ricci had disappeared, then back at her phone. With a sigh that felt like surrendering and rebelling all at once, she ordered one more shot.

Tomorrow. She'd make her decision tomorrow after the tequila wore off and reason returned.

But as she stepped out into the rain, she knew with unsettling clarity that Luca Ricci's card would burn a hole in her pocket until she called. Some offers, no matter how dangerous, were too tempting to ignore—especially when you had nothing left to lose.

Except, perhaps, your soul. And Maya was beginning to wonder what the going rate for that might be.