Mari Vanna. It wasn’t what Bret Danica would pick, preferring a three-star Michelin chef, plating, and cuisine. Exquisite taste in fine dining was an expectation for Bret, enjoying rich, flavorful food. Living in Chicago afforded him access to some of the finer dining establishments in Chicago, getting a table in moments instead of waiting weeks for a reservation.

               “Are you sure that’s what Viktor said?” His personal assistant Monica stood in front of his desk, smartphone held in her left hand, a day planner in her right, open to a date circled in bright red. The end of the week fast approached, and she wondered if Mr. Danica was ready for the meeting. But her apprehension never crossed her face, not even when it was just the two of them. A pen lay in the middle of the open day planner, Monica knowing she may need to take notes in a second. Not waiting for Mr. Danica to reply, she lay the phone on the left side of the planner, which was covered in scribbles, doodles, and miscellaneous notations. She could read all her notes, even if Mr. Danica couldn’t, and that was for the best.

               “That’s what he requested, Mr. Danica. Would you like me to call him back and confirm?” She dreaded making calls that second-guessed any influential person. But Viktor was not one to be second-guessed. Monica figured that out when she watched him slap his personal aide with an open hand. If they had been in public, Monica was confident the police would have stepped in. But they were in Viktor’s suite in Cresent Heights, smaller than Mr. Danica’s home, but it was supposed to be a short meeting. The only reason he raised his hand in the first place was she dared to question his decision in front of the two Americans. The young girl took the slap like a champ, standing her ground and wincing only for a second. Her cheek turned reddish pink, and then she smiled at both Americans, curtsying enough to look elegant. Monica never forgot how Viktor treated her. In Monica’s imagination, she pictured him beating his men into submission.

               “No,” Bret answered. “Reserve it for two days.”

               “Two?” she asked.

               “I want that place deep cleaned, scrubbed down to the baseboards. Everything must stay the same as it looks now – only cleaner.”

               “Yes, Mr. Danica.”

               “And Monica?”

               “Yes, sir?”

               “I promise. This is going to end at the end of the week.”

               “Mr. Danica, may I ask a favor?”

               “Monica.” Bret looked around his empty office. “We’re alone. You don’t have to call me Mr. Danica in my office, okay?”

               “Bret.” She set her planner and phone down on his desk and sat hard on one of the two chairs facing his desk. “I can’t keep doing this. Do you remember that poor Russian woman he slapped? What if he does that to you?”

               “That’s not going to happen.”

               “But,” she leaned over the desk, “what if it does? Bret, he’d kill you if he knew he could get away with it. That’s the kind of man he is! Why can’t you see that?”

               “Who says I can’t see it, Monica? What makes you think I don’t know what he’s capable of?”

               “Your decisions lately, Bret.” She laid her glasses on the planner, pinching her nose and scrubbing her eyes. “I don’t think you see what you’re doing. It’s scaring me.”

               Bret swiveled his leather wingback away from her, staring out the window. “Well, don’t be.” He felt his hands start shaking, sweat breaking out on his forehead. “This will be over in a few more days, then back to normal.” Before turning back around, he wiped his forehead clean. Monica stood up, putting her glasses back on her face, picking up the day planner and her phone.

               “I’m not sure I can last a few more days, Mr. Danica.” She walked out, head held high, with no fear. Monica opened the door, but before she walked out, she said, “And I’m not sure you can either, Mr. Danica.” The door closed, and the simple, slow click made Bret shiver.

               “Yes, it’s me. We are on for tonight.” Bret drew on the widow, making two dots for eyes, then a slight ‘U’ drawing a smiling face. He shivered once. Smiling, he headed for the door, whistling to himself Billy Joel’s Piano Man.

               Exiting the elevator, he made his way to the front doors of the building. Security closed the x-ray machines for the evening, preferring to wand the executives who came in after hours instead of waiting for their random items to traverse the x-ray belt. Mr. Danica walked past the two guards, Felix and Jonathan. Felix had his feet propped up on the x-ray machine, a styrofoam cup in hand, sipping whatever beverage was inside through the paper straw. Whoever decided Styrofoam was okay, but plastic straws weren’t was an idiot, at least in Bret’s estimation.

On the other hand, Jonathan was leaning against the wall, staring into the monitors built into the security desk. Felix’s weight would’ve been a problem for any other security company. His disability claim forced Braithwaite Security to hold onto him. At least until he was on social security. Then he’d be their problem, which was supposed to happen in a few more weeks.

Jonathan couldn’t pass the classes needed to graduate from the Chicago police academy. His average frame made it appear like he had bulk, preventing several larger guys from messing with him. And, self-defense-wise? He could hold his own. Classwork was his downfall, including his test anxiety. Jonathan came from New York, where tough guys were a dime a dozen, and his attitude almost cost him his life on many occasions. Jonathan’s mother told him he should try school someplace else, like Chicago. “Who knows? You might could be somebody in Chicago.” Mama Costa said. Because he always listened to his mother, he moved without a second thought. But it didn’t work out for him. Instead, Braithwaite Security hired him without reviewing either his application or resume.

“Gentlemen,” Mr. Danica said as he passed both guards.

Felix did his best to jump up, sliding backward in the chair and almost hitting the floor. Somehow he caught the edge of the seat with his right hand, forcing himself back to his feet, all without meeting the floor. Not even the best gymnast could attempt or land that kind of fall. Even Peter Sellers, the original Jacques Clouseau, would’ve been impressed! Jonathan sneered at the fat man, shaking his head.

“Mr. Danica,” Jonathan acknowledged every tenant in the office building, especially those men and women who, with a snap of their fingers, could have him fired. Felix had nothing to worry about, but Jonathan did. “Have a great evening.” Jonathan halfway saluted him as though he were a superior officer. Some things from the academy hadn’t worn off.

Summertime in the city and Chicago didn’t know it wasn’t supposed to be so hot or muggy. But it was. Bret stepped outside, hit with a wave of sticky humidity, and quickly loosened his tie. He didn’t have to wait, his car pulling curbside and the driver stepping out, running to the passenger rear of the Towncar.

“Mr. Danica,” the driver addressed him. “Heading home tonight, sir?”

“Yes. Thank you, Ernesto.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ernesto waited until Bret was inside the car before shutting the door behind him.