His Assistant (Sinful Mafia Daddies #1)

Chapter 1

SOFIA

The woman at the security desk looks at my shoes before she looks at my face, and she doesn’t seem particularly impressed. I pretend not to notice. They’re clean. That should count for something, right?

They’re also a knockoff designer brand I scored on clearance. The left one pinches the side of my foot something awful, but fashion is pain, right? They match the navy slacks and cream blouse I picked out for my interview, so I breathe through it.

I desperately need this job. So, I don’t mind the way the security guard is side-eyeing me. It’ll be worth it later when she’s scanning my employee badge.

“Sofia Bellini,” I tell her as I step up to the desk. “I have a nine-thirty interview with the hospitality division.”

She checks her screen. I keep my shoulders straight and my hands still, even though I want to grab the edge of the desk for balance. After a few excruciating seconds, she prints a badge and slides it across.

“Twenty-sixth floor,” she says in a bored voice.

“Thank you!” I squeak out.

She nods once, already looking past me to the next person waiting to get in.

The lobby is so large I’d call it cavernous.

It’s bigger than the cathedral I grew up attending in Queens, and for years I thought that was the biggest building in the world.

Dad didn’t take us into Manhattan much. This place has marble floors, brass trim, and floor-to-ceiling windows.

It feels wrong to scuff it in my knockoffs.

Vieri Holdings isn’t my usual scene. It’s a far cry from my Queens apartment, where the water pressure is pitiful, and my father’s repair shop with the cracked front window.

This place screams luxury and old money. There are floral arrangements taller than children going through puberty here. They probably cost more than my rent, too.

I head for the elevators and try not to tally the price of everything I see. It’s an unfortunate force of habit. My phone buzzes in my pocket just as the doors open, and I pull it out to read the message.

Good luck, sweetheart. Everything here is fine.

It’s from my dad, and I know for a fact that everything is not fine.

The garage is not fine. It hasn’t been fine in a long time.

His health isn’t fine either. His blood pressure is a constant headache to his doctor.

His debt is not fine. It’s the main reason I made the trek on the subway this morning.

I wish it worked that way. I wish just saying things were fine would make them so.

I step inside the elevator with a woman in a pinstriped suit who’s barking into her phone like there’s no one else in the cramped space. Two men follow her in. One smells like expensive cologne. At least $500 an ounce, if I had to guess.

The woman presses thirty-two. One of the men presses forty. I press twenty-six. At least, I think I do.

My phone buzzes before the doors close.

Dad: Don’t worry about me today. Focus on you.

It would be a lot easier to focus on me if he’d stop texting. I don’t mean to feel as annoyed as I do, but my nerves are complicating everything else. I take a deep breath and type out a response.

Me: Love you. I’ll call after.

By the time I look up, the doors are open, so I step out, thinking it must be my floor. Only, too late, I realize the woman in the pinstriped suit is still yelling into her phone two feet ahead of me. The doors close behind me before I can get back in and try for the right floor.

“Of course,” I mutter.

I jab the down button and wait impatiently. This stupid little mistake is going to make me late to my interview. I turn my phone off just to make sure I don’t make another dumb error.

Somewhere down the hall, a woman yells, “No, no, no, that is not the revised deck.”

A man answers, “It was in the folder.”

“The wrong folder, Bruce.”

“I didn’t name the folders.”

“You don’t need to name them to read a date.”

I pretend not to hear them since it’s doing nothing to calm my nerves. Instead, I clutch my own folder containing my resume tighter to my chest and tap my foot impatiently at the world’s slowest elevator.

Then someone rounds the corner too fast. A hard shoulder slams into mine and I nearly fall to the floor.

My folder wasn’t so lucky though and slips dramatically from my hand.

Pages from my résumé scatter across the floor.

A stack of black presentation folders hits the marble at the same time, and now there’s a huge mess.

Why, God, why? This is the last thing I need right now.

Then I look up. The man who ran into me is tall, broad, and ridiculously attractive.

Like, I’d probably forget my own name if he asked attractive.

He’s wearing a dark, expensive suit. I’m guessing at least $5,000, not counting the shirt or cufflinks.

His dark hair is graying a little at the temples, though it’s more silver than gray.

He’s scowling even though he’s the one who ran into me, and that just irritates me further.

He looks at the mess on the floor, then at me. “Are you okay?”

His voice is low and calm. Not gentle, exactly, but also not rude despite his annoyed expression.

“Yes,” I say quickly, willing the conversation to end so I can get away from his piercing stare.

His eyes drop to my badge. “You’re on the wrong floor,” he says, almost as if he’s reprimanding me.

“Yes, I know,” I breathe out. “I followed someone off the elevator, and now I’m waiting—”

“Mr. Vieri, I’m sorry,” a woman cuts in before I can finish explaining. “They moved the Sterling meeting up, the packets are all wrong, and Anthony isn’t answering his phone.”

Mr. Vieri. As in Dominic Vieri. As in the man whose name is on the freaking building.

My stomach drops.

Can this day get any worse?

“Those packets?” Dominic Vieri asks as the three of us slowly look down at the mess on the floor.

I crouch down immediately and start gathering up papers, trying to sort them somehow.

“Which packets are wrong?” I ask the woman.

She blinks at me in surprise. “What?”

I lift one of the folders. “Are all of them wrong, or only some?”

She seems perplexed and annoyed that I’m asking her.

“I don’t know,” she admits slowly.

I nod and start stuffing papers back into the folders. Dominic Vieri certainly isn’t going to risk creasing his $5,000 suit to help.

I open the first folder just enough to read the top page.

Sterling Hospitality Acquisition.

Confidential.

Great. I’m already committing light corporate espionage. Then I realize the date is wrong.

“This one is old,” I say, holding up the folder to the woman.

Dominic Vieri says nothing.

I check three more.

“These two are old, too. This one is current. The current agenda mentions the revised labor projections.”

A young man with glasses appears behind the woman. “How do you know that’s the current version?”

“Because it has the correct date,” I tell him as patiently as I can manage.

He flushes and nods. I realize I should stop talking.

“There are supposed to be twelve,” the woman says, finally crouching beside me.

“There are eight here,” I tell her. “Four are correct, four are wrong.”

“Four missing,” she mutters.

“Where are the files?” I ask.

“Saved, but the conference room printer is down, and Anthony has the signed addendums.”

“Use another printer for the four missing packets. Pull tabs from the wrong ones. Print the addendums separately and slide them behind the agenda. No one will notice.”

The woman snatches up the wrong packets.

“Bruce, copy room. Now,” she snaps at the young man standing there with his mouth open.

Bruce runs like his life depends on it. I hand her the correct folders, then reach for my résumé. The top page is already in Mr. Vieri’s hand. He reads the top line.

“Sofia Bellini,” he reads out.

“Yes,” I say, standing. I smooth my blouse because I need something to do with my hands. “Again, I’m sorry. I should get to my interview.”

“What position are you interviewing for?”

“Junior administrative assistant. Hospitality division.”

He looks behind me, toward the elevators that still have not opened. “You’ll be late.”

“I’m aware,” I answer, flushing.

“Do you have executive support experience?”

“Some,” I admit. “Scheduling, vendors, client communication, basic office management. I’ve filled in where needed, but I haven’t had the title.”

“Why not?”

Because titles go to people who already know someone. Because I spent years taking whichever job kept the bills paid instead of building the kind of résumé people here would respect. Because my life has been one long exercise in being overlooked.

“Most companies want you to have three consecutive years of C-suite experience,” I answer honestly.

The woman beside me makes a sound like she is trying not to laugh. Dominic Vieri studies me. I force myself not to look away.

Finally, he says, “Come with me.”

My grip tightens around my folder. “I have an interview.”

“Not anymore.”

My stomach drops again.

“Please don’t cancel it. I know I overstepped, but I was trying to help.”

“You did help. Come with me, Ms. Bellini.”

He turns before I answer.

The woman gives me a look that says I should follow him. So I do.

His office is at the end of the hall, behind thick glass doors. It isn’t flashy, necessarily, but it’s ten times the size of any office I’ve ever worked in. His desk is a dark wood backed up against a wall of windows. I try not to gape at the incredible view.

He gestures to the chair across from his desk. I sit. He doesn’t.

“You handled that issue well,” he says, watching me.

“Thank you,” I answer nervously, not sure why he’s brought me here.

“You stayed calm under pressure, including your own personal agenda.”

“It was an easy organizational problem.” I shrug humbly.

“A problem that wasn’t your job to fix, but you did anyway.”

He leans against the front of his desk and folds his arms, looking down at me. “The job you came to interview for pays $62,000 a year.”

I nod. “That sounds right.”

“My executive assistant left unexpectedly yesterday.”

That’s not what I was expecting him to say at all.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I say, trying to follow his thought process.

“I need someone who learns quickly,” he continues. “Someone organized. Someone who can keep their head when other people lose theirs. Most importantly, I need someone who can start right away. I don’t have time to conduct interviews.”

He’s direct, even though I’m not sure what he’s being direct about. Surely he’s not insinuating that I should be his assistant.

“You could promote from within?” I suggest.

He smiles at me wryly. “Or,” he says slowly, “I could give the job to you.”

“I don’t have that experience,” I gasp, too shocked to say anything else.

“You have enough,” he answers, still clutching my résumé in his hands.

“That’s kind of you to say, Mr. Vieri—”

“You’ll have to call me Dominic,” he says with a smirk. “We’ll be working very closely together, and I hate being called Mr. Vieri.”

“Well, Dominic,” I try, but his name feels strange in my mouth. “It’s a kind offer, but—”

“Before you say no, I should tell you the pay is more than double what the other position offers. Better benefits, too. Long hours, but I have a generous overtime policy.”

I swallow hard and try not to look like I have dollar signs in my eyes. It would be stupid to take this position without knowing what I’m getting into. I spent hours researching the other job. I know all the ins and outs of the Hospitality Department. I know nothing about working for Dominic Vieri.

“How generous?” I hear myself asking.