All Chapters of Mafia Tech Bro: Chapter 81 - Chapter 90

CHRISTOFTanisha’s behavior had taken on a physical weight.I felt it every time she set something on my desk. Every response she gave carried the sharp, clipped edge of a woman biting back a second sentence. Even her silence had shifted. Before, it was the guarded, predictable quiet of a professional. Now, it crowded the room like summer heat.Across from me, she was typing corrections into a spreadsheet. Her face was neutral, but her shoulders were drawn high and rigid.“Tanisha.”Her fingers froze over the keys. “Yes?”“I’m still waiting on that file.”She reached for it immediately and stood from her desk. Her heels struck the floor in a harsh rhythm as she made her way over. I tracked the stiffness in her spine before she reached the edge of my desk.She extended the file. I took it, flipped to the first page, and let my eyes skim the columns before looking up.“These numbers are hollow. The projections are missing.”Her jaw shifted, a tight muscle flexing near her ear. “I sent a

CHRISTOFThe call cut out with a dull beep.I set the phone on the desk and leaned back, the leather creaking beneath my weight. The fourth shipment had cleared. Exactly as expected. The confirmation didn’t bring a rush of adrenaline; it was just a sequence of boxes checked. Routes were locked, buyers were stable. The predictability of it meant profit, and profit was a mountain at this point. The wire transfer from this single run could swallow the annual overhead of my entire software development wing and leave enough leftover cash to make an auditor sweat.My men were happy. Their accounts grew heavier with every delivery. So did mine. But money had stopped acting as a motivator years ago. If I walked out of this building today and never came back, three generations of Gustavos wouldn't have to lift a finger.Yet every morning I still arrived at the office, before most of my executives. I still sat through product pitches. I still signed off on hardware budgets and debated compile

TANISHAChristof didn’t have a single meeting logged for the afternoon.I knew his calendar down to the fifteen-minute buffer blocks, and there was no reservation for this place, either. He also usually went for lunch alone. During the entire three-block walk from the office, I kept trying to find reasons why he’d want to have lunch and need me present for that. Whatever this was, it was unplanned. That much was obvious.The hostess led us to a small, two-top table pressed against the front glass. The air inside smelled of scorched rosemary, melted butter, and the sharp, bright sting of squeezed lemons. Around us, the lunchtime clatter was a low hum of corporate gossip.I dropped into the chair. The leather was supple, but my shoulder blades stayed pinned hard against the backrest.Outside, a delivery truck hissed as its air brakes released, blocking half the crosswalk. A woman in a camel coat hurried past, balancing two cardboard coffee carriers, her heels clicking rapidly against th

CHRISTOFAs I started up the stairs, the sharp, medicinal burn of peat and aged wood drifted through the foyer.My hand stayed on the banister. The scent was coming from the bar tucked under the curve of the staircase. I craned my neck over the banister and saw Pepa sitting there alone on a stool. She had a crystal glass between her fingers, and the ice inside had melted enough to water down the liquor.She hadn't just poured it.I looked at the glass, then at her. Pepa drank wine and champagne. She liked expensive bottles that came with a sommelier's recommendation. Scotch was different. She only drank it on bad days.My shoulders tensed. I let go of the banister and walked toward the bar, my shoes clicking against the marble floor.She looked up when I got close. She didn't smile. Instead, she let out a short, hollow laugh.“Hey,” I said.“Hey.”I pulled out the stool next to hers and sat down. “What are we drinking?”She lifted her glass. “Apparently scotch.”“Apparently?”“It tast

CHRISTOFMy throat felt raw, like I’d spent the night inhaling smoke.I lay there staring at the ceiling, waiting for the dull throb behind my eyes to fade. Five glasses of scotch was a stupid, amateur move, and my body was making sure I felt every single one of them.The bedroom was dark, the heavy curtains blocking out everything but a flat, gray slit of morning light. I reached out, my hand hitting the empty, cold linen on the other side of the mattress.I sat up so fast, the room lurched.“Shit.”The word tore out of my dry throat. I swung my legs out, my feet hitting the bare wood, and yanked my robe off the chair. I didn't even bother tying the belt right, just hauled the bedroom door open and walked out.The upstairs hallway was dead quiet, except for the distant, muffled whine of a vacuum cleaner somewhere down on the first floor. Pale streaks of sun cut across the floorboards from the high windows, showing all the dust floating in the air.I went straight to the guest room at