Chapter 3 - The Surcharge Debate
Sal looked up with a face streaked with tears and mucus, begging Emily to intervene on his behalf. Emily refused flatly, noting that they were not friends and demanding Dante's signature immediately.
The guards looked at her as if she had grown a second head, waiting for the order to execute her for sheer disrespect. Dante's grip on the gun tightened as he took a slow step toward the desk in sheer disbelief.
"You audited his accounts?" Dante asked in a dangerous whisper.
"Of course I did," Emily sighed, explaining how Sal used his mother's maiden name for an embarrassingly obvious offshore routing number. "It took me twelve minutes to trace it, so sign the paper and you can shoot him afterward."
She looked around the room with a deep frown before offering her final logistical demand. "Just do it in the warehouse, please, because we literally just had these rugs steam-cleaned on Tuesday."
Emily explained that she had spent forty minutes arguing with the vendor about upcharges for bloodstains last month and refused to do it again. "Frankly, Sal isn't worth the surcharge, so sign, then shoot, in the warehouse."
For ten seconds, the world stopped spinning while everyone paralyzed in shock at her absolute audacity. Dante stared at the pen, then at the freshly cleaned Persian rug, and finally at Sal's pathetic face.
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Something broke inside Dante's chest with the physical snap of a rusted gear forcing itself into motion. A jagged, choking wheeze escaped his throat before transforming into a deep, resonant rumble that shook his shoulders.
Dante dropped his head, covered his face, and began laughing with a loud, unhinged roar. The sound of nine years of repressed humanity exploded outward while the guards exchanged terrified glances.
