[COMPLETED] My Boyfriend Chose a Rich Heiress at the Mafia Gala—Then the Most Feared Crime Boss Covered My Shoulders With His Coat

By morning, my payroll login no longer worked.

I sat at the chipped kitchen table in my apartment above the laundromat, listening to the machines turn beneath the floor. The same password I had used the previous afternoon returned a message telling me to contact an administrator.

I tried once more. Nothing.

At eight fifteen, I called my supervisor, Elaine Porter.

“Your account is under review,” she told me.

“Why?”

“I'm not authorized to discuss it.”

“Has someone accused me of something?”

There was a pause long enough to make my stomach tighten.

“Don't come in until Human Resources contacts you.”

The call ended.

I had never missed a payroll deadline. I had stayed late to reconcile overtime when entire crews were waiting to be paid. Now I was being told to stay home without anyone explaining what I had done.

My phone rang again. This time it was the manager of my apartment building.

He sounded apologetic. “Blackridge Housing wants to review your lease eligibility. I'm supposed to tell you there may be changes after the end of the month.”

I leaned against the kitchen counter.

The job. The apartment. The health insurance. Last night those things had kept me sitting while people laughed. This morning they were being held up in front of me like pieces of a life someone could take apart.

“Nothing has been decided yet,” he added.

“That isn't very reassuring.”

“I know.”

After hanging up, I opened the drawer where I kept my personal notebook. It was cheap and blue, its cover bent at the corners. Inside were dates, reference numbers, and questions I had written while checking payroll reports. I never copied employee addresses or private identification details. I wrote down the entries I needed to ask supervisors about, then noted when the answers didn't come.

The same category appeared on six different pages: adjusted transportation hours.

Those hours belonged to crews working on Blackridge forestry contracts. I remembered one employee, Rosa Alvarez, calling the payroll desk after a weekend shift had vanished from her statement. She had sounded embarrassed to ask about money she had already earned.

I had promised to check.

The correction appeared, disappeared, and never reached her paycheck.

My phone buzzed with an unfamiliar number.

A message read: You were right to keep asking questions. If you want independent advice, call this office. — N. Mercer.

Below it was the number of a law firm in Jackson.

I stared at the screen. A man who controlled a feared crime organization was now recommending a lawyer. I couldn't decide whether to laugh or throw the phone across the room.

Instead, I looked up the firm's public listing and called the number shown there, not the one in his message.

An attorney named Isabel Reyes answered after the receptionist transferred me.

“Mr. Mercer asked whether I could make time for someone who might be facing retaliation,” she said. “He hasn't given me your name or told me what happened.”

“Does he pay you?”

“He offered to pay for an initial consultation. I refused that arrangement. If you retain me, I represent you, not him.”

I found myself breathing a little easier.

We met that afternoon at her office above a bookstore. Isabel wore a charcoal blazer and spoke with the calm precision of someone who didn't need to raise her voice to be heard.

I told her about Daniel, the gala, the payroll irregularities, and the notice that had arrived after midnight.

She didn't interrupt until I finished.

“First, keep copies of every notice sent to you,” she said. “Second, don't try to enter a system after your access has been revoked. Third, don't give anyone original records from work without reviewing your obligations and the proper reporting process.”

I placed my personal notebook on the desk.

“Can I show you this?”

She checked what it contained before opening it. Then she read slowly, turning the pages with care.

“Did you write these entries at the time?”

“Yes.”

“Who saw your reports?”

“Elaine. Then Daniel told me corporate finance had taken over.”

“Why Daniel?”

“His department handled the alliance contracts. I thought he was helping.”

The words were difficult to say. They sounded foolish now, although they hadn't felt foolish when he was standing beside my desk with a coffee.

Isabel asked me to reconstruct the dates from memory. Together we made a timeline without accessing anything I no longer had permission to see.

At the end of the meeting, she slid a notepad toward me.

“You have more than a personal grievance,” she said. “But suspicion is not proof. We need a lawful way to establish who changed the entries and who benefited.”

“Could they blame me?”

“Yes. Especially if the approvals appear under your credentials.”

A cold feeling moved through me.

That possibility had never occurred to me until she said it aloud.

When I returned home, a delivery envelope was waiting beneath my door. It contained a letter from Blackridge Human Resources placing me on paid administrative leave pending an investigation into irregular payroll approvals.

Paid leave. Polite language. An accusation without details.

I photographed the envelope and called Isabel.

“Don't respond alone,” she said. “I'll request the allegations in writing.”

While we spoke, an email arrived from my supervisor's work address. Its subject was blank. The message consisted of a single sentence: I didn't approve the changes made under your name.

A second message followed immediately.

I'm sorry. I should have told you sooner.

I sat very still, listening to the washers downstairs begin another cycle.