The Involuntary Retainer

The bass from the dance floor didn't just vibrate the walls of the office; it rattled the fillings in Arthur Penhaligon’s teeth.

Arthur sat hunched over a mahogany desk that cost more than his annual salary, clutching a moss-green inhaler like a religious talisman. He took a puff. *Hiss. Gasp.* Then, a sound escaped his throat—a high, reedy squeak that sounded like a chew toy being stepped on.

* Heh-hee-hee.*

"Stop that," Luca Moretti growled. "You sound like a dying rat."

Luca "The Bull" Moretti was pacing the small, windowless room. He was a mountain of a man, upholstered in a suit that strained at the shoulders, smelling of expensive cigars and the metallic tang of old blood. He stopped pacing and slammed a heavy, calloused hand onto the desk, inches from Arthur’s nose.

"Are you listening to me, Four-Eyes?"

Arthur flinched violently, his glasses sliding down his sweating nose. "Y-yes, Mr. Moretti. I’m listening. The... the auditory environment is just... suboptimal for concentration."

* Heh-hee.*

"Ten million," Luca said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "My father, the Don, comes back from Sicily on Sunday. If the books show a ten million dollar hole, he doesn't just fire people. He liquidates them. Literally."

Luca grabbed Arthur’s cheap polyester tie and yanked him forward. Arthur smelled the stale whiskey on the underboss’s breath.

"You’re the best forensic accountant in the city, right? That’s what the Yelp review said before my guys threw you in the van."

"I... I specialize in small business tax avoidance," Arthur stammered, his eyes darting to the locked steel door. "Dry cleaners. Bakeries. Not... not organized crime syndicates."

"Money is money," Luca shoved him back into the chair. He gestured to the pile of crumpled receipts, ledgers, and the encrypted laptop on the desk. "Find it. Fix it. You have until Friday night. If you find the money, you walk out of here with fifty grand. If you don't..."

Luca mimed a slicing motion across his throat.

Arthur’s chest tightened. The asthma was flaring. He fumbled for the inhaler again, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it.

"I... I can't work under these conditions," Arthur whispered, his voice trembling. "The statistical probability of error increases exponentially with stress levels."

Luca laughed. It was a barking, cruel sound. "You think this is stress? Stress is when I take you down to the meat locker in the basement. Now type, nerd. Before I break your fingers and make you type with your nose."

Arthur pushed his glasses up. He looked at the screen. He looked at Luca. And then, he let out another involuntary, terrified giggle.

* Heh-hee-hee.*

"Start typing," Luca roared.

Arthur began to type.