Chapter 2 - The Audit of the Iron Throne
The offices of Thorne Enterprises occupied the top three floors of a towering, black-glass monolith overlooking the Chicago River. It was a corporate empire that wore legitimacy like a well-tailored suit, but Clarissa knew better.
As a senior forensic auditor at Bristol & Mercer, she knew how to read the spaces between the numbers. She knew that where there was too much cash, there was always a shadow.
She sat in the leather armchair across from Marcus’s massive mahogany desk, dressed in a sharp, form-fitting emerald blazer and tailored black trousers. Her curls were pinned back, her expression entirely professional, though her pulse raced as Marcus entered the room.
He had traded his charcoal suit for a rolled-up white dress shirt, revealing forearms corded with muscle and a dark, intricate tattoo of a coiled serpent wrapping around his left wrist.
“You actually called,” Marcus said, setting a fresh cup of dark roast coffee in front of her before taking his seat.
“I’m a forensic auditor, Mr. Thorne,” Clarissa said, tapping her leather portfolio. “When a man who controls half the shipping terminals in the Great Lakes tells me he has a contract to discuss, I don't ignore it. Especially when my firm suddenly received a retainer from your legal department this morning that could buy my entire division.”
Marcus leaned back, his volcanic hazel eyes locking onto hers. “I don't care about your firm, Clarissa. I care about your mind. I’ve read your file. You’re the woman who exposed the ten-million-dollar embezzlement scheme at the Northern Trust last year without ever stepping foot in their vault.”
“I look at what people try to hide,” she said simply.
“Then look at this,” Marcus said. He slid a heavy, encrypted tablet across the desk.
Clarissa picked it up, her fingers scanning the complex ledger sheets. Within thirty seconds, her eyes narrowed. The numbers looked pristine on the surface, but the velocity of the capital moving through the maritime logistics accounts was off. It was too fast. It was designed to look like standard freight tariffs, but the micro-entries showed a pattern of systemic, automated bleeding.
“Someone is skimming from your legitimate shipping lines,” Clarissa said, her professional instincts instantly taking over. “It’s small enough to bypass standard artificial intelligence flags, but it’s consistent. Over eighteen months, they’ve moved close to forty million dollars out of your accounts.”
“And where is it going?” Marcus asked, his jaw tightening.
“Into a series of shell companies registered in Delaware, but routed through a private clearinghouse here in Chicago,” Clarissa said, looking up. “Mr. Thorne, this isn't just theft. This is a setup. The clearinghouse they are using is currently under active investigation by the federal task force. Whoever is doing this isn't trying to get rich—they are trying to create a paper trail that connects your legitimate assets to money laundering.”
Marcus stood up, walking to the panoramic window. The gray Chicago skyline stretched out beneath him, cold and unforgiving.
“My enemies are getting desperate,” he said softly. “They can't beat me on the streets, so they are trying to use the law to lock me in a cage. I need the name of the mole, Clarissa. I need the physical proof before the feds launch their raid.”
“This will take weeks of deep-dive auditing,” Clarissa warned. “And I’ll have to work directly from your secure servers. If anyone sees me here, they’ll know you’re hunting them.”
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Marcus turned around, stepping close to her desk. He leaned down, placing both hands on the armrests of her chair, trapping her within his massive frame.
“You’re not working from the office, Clarissa,” he whispered, his eyes burning with that familiar, possessive heat. “You’re working from my estate in Lake Forest. You will have full access, twenty-four-hour security, and whatever you need. No one touches you. No one buys you. From this moment on, you belong to my personal detail.”
