The first thing I lost was my home.

The second was my dignity.

By midnight, I was standing outside a casino owned by the most dangerous man in New York.

Rain soaked my expensive coat. Yesterday, that coat had cost more than most people's rent.

Today, I couldn't afford a taxi.

My phone vibrated. Another message from my sister, Lily.

Are they really taking the house?

I stared at her words until the screen blurred.

Not if I can help it, I typed.

That was a lie. I had been lying to her since breakfast.

Our accounts were frozen. Our lawyers stopped answering. Every Sinclair property carried a notice bearing somebody else's signature.

And my father had vanished three nights earlier.

The revolving doors turned. Two men in black suits watched me enter.

One glanced at my ruined shoes. The other looked at my face.

"Jamie Sinclair," I said. "I'm here to see Dante Moretti."

The taller guard laughed once, without humor.

"You have an appointment?"

"Tell him his five hundred million dollars just walked through the door."

That stopped the laughter.

They searched my pockets and took my phone. Neither apologized.

I followed them through a casino smelling of perfume, whiskey, and money.

Gold lights reflected in mirrored walls. Nobody looked worried about losing a fortune.

I wondered how many fortunes had disappeared into this building.

An elevator carried us above the gaming floors. Its doors opened onto a silent corridor.

At the far end stood two more guards.

I counted four guns before reaching the office.

The door opened. Dante Moretti sat behind a black marble desk.

He wore a dark shirt with its sleeves rolled to his elbows.

A thin cut crossed his knuckles. He was cleaning blood from his hand with a white cloth.

I wished I hadn't noticed.

"Sinclair," he said, as if I'd arrived for dinner.

"Moretti."

His steel-gray eyes traveled over my wet coat.

"You look terrible."

"You look like a man who enjoys hearing himself talk."

One guard shifted behind me. Dante raised a finger, and the room became still.

"Leave us."

The guards withdrew. I remained standing.

Dante pointed at the chair opposite him.

"Sit."

"I'd rather stand."

"Then stand."

His indifference annoyed me more than an insult would have.

I placed a folder on his desk. It contained every document our remaining lawyer could salvage.

"My father's company owes your holding firm money," I said. "I want ninety days to investigate the accounts."

"Five hundred million dollars," Dante replied. "That's a generous description of money."

"Most of those loans were issued through shell companies. Someone engineered the defaults."

"I know."

I stopped breathing for a moment.

"What?"

He leaned back. "I know the debt isn't as simple as your newspapers suggest."

"Then help me prove it."

"And what would you give me?"

I hated that question. I hated his calm voice even more.

"I have nothing left."

"Not nothing."

His gaze held mine. I folded my arms, suddenly aware of the wet fabric clinging to me.

"Don't even think about it," I snapped.

Dante's mouth curved. "You don't know what I'm thinking."

"I'm guessing it's illegal."

"Frequently."

He slid a document across the desk.

PRIVATE EMPLOYMENT AGREEMENT.

I stared at the title.

"You want to hire me?"

"For one year. Your salary goes into an independent account. Your sister receives housing and tuition support."

"And the debt?"

"I suspend collection against your family's remaining personal assets while we examine the fraudulent loans."

I skimmed the pages. The document described wages, living arrangements, confidentiality, and a termination process.

It also promised access to selected records about my father's disappearance.

My throat tightened. "You know where he is?"

"I have leads."

"Then tell me."

"Sign, and you'll be inside the house where my people investigate them. Or walk away and find your own leads."

I looked up. "That's blackmail."

"It's an ugly offer," he said. "You can refuse it."

That made me angrier. He wasn't pretending to be kind.

I turned another page.

JOB TITLE: PERSONAL MAID.

I read it twice.

"You can't be serious."

"I'm very serious."

"A maid? You want me to clean your house?"

"Among other domestic duties."

"I have a business degree."

"Congratulations. My floors are still dirty."

I wanted to throw the contract at his perfect face.

Instead, I imagined Lily standing outside our locked house with her schoolbag.

"Why me?" I asked.

Dante watched me for so long that the clock became unbearable.

"Because your father left something behind," he finally said. "And because you're stubborn enough to find it."

"Then make me an investigator."

"Investigators aren't invisible. Servants are."

That answer sounded almost reasonable. I distrusted it immediately.

"What happens if I quit?"

"You leave. You keep earned wages. The original corporate debt remains a separate legal dispute."

"And Lily?"

"Her housing and tuition fund stays protected for the agreed year."

I checked that clause three times.

"No one touches her," I said.

"No one touches her," Dante repeated.

For the first time, he sounded like a man making a promise rather than a bargain.

I found the pen. My hand shook so badly I nearly dropped it.

"I hate you," I whispered.

"You haven't known me long enough."

"I've known enough."

I signed.

Dante added his signature, then pressed a button beneath the desk.

An older man entered carrying a garment bag.

"Mr. Bell will supervise your work," Dante said. "He runs the household."

The man offered me a sympathetic nod.

"Your uniform, Mr. Sinclair."

I opened the bag.

Black fabric. White lace. A frilled apron.

I looked from the dress to Dante.

"Absolutely not."

"You signed the dress code."

"I thought that meant a shirt and trousers!"

"You should read contracts carefully."

I lifted the ridiculous white headpiece between two fingers.

"I'm going to kill you."

Mr. Bell coughed into his hand.

Dante merely smiled.

"Welcome to my house, Jamie."

I had walked into that casino hoping to save my family.

I remembered the last morning in our townhouse.

The kitchen had smelled of burnt toast. Dad's briefcase stood by the door, exactly where he always left it.

He'd kissed Lily's forehead and promised to return before dinner.

By evening, his phone was disconnected.

By morning, men with court orders were measuring the windows.

Our neighbors pretended not to see the moving trucks.

I had promised Lily that somebody would explain everything.

Nobody did.

The bank blamed our accountants. Our accountants blamed the board. The board blamed Dad.

One reporter asked whether he'd stolen the money himself.

I nearly punched him.

The worst part wasn't losing the house. It was discovering how quickly people stopped recognizing us.

Friends vanished. Invitations disappeared. Even the doorman at our old club refused to meet my eyes.

That was why I stood in Dante's office, holding a pen I couldn't afford to throw away.

I had no rescue coming. Whatever happened next, I would have to survive it myself.

Somehow, I'd walked out with a maid dress and the world's worst boss.

And I still didn't know why he wanted me.