Marisol Cruz never met the man whose books she balanced. Six years of ledgers for the Delgado cartel from a strip mall office in Phoenix and she was fine with that. Then the Delgados fell, and the man who bought their debts-Rafael Sorelli, capo of the Chicago family behind the whole operation-had her brought to him. He needs her ledgers. He needs the fortune they record. He has six weeks to get both, and no idea what to do with a forensic accountant who keeps correcting his math. Marisol stalls. Rafael negotiates. They start working at three in the morning because neither of them sleeps and the numbers are cleaner with two sets of eyes. Then she finds forty million dollars that isn't missing from the Delgado accounts. It's hiding in Rafael's own books, laundered by a dead father, booby-trapped for the moment the IRS looks. She tells him. He believes her. And then he burns his father's legacy to the ground, one line item at a time, with her reading over his shoulder. She goes home. He doesn't let her stay gone.
