Chapter Three
Victoria
The day after I meet Mario Conti for the first time, I’m back in his building with a visitor badge on my blazer, my briefcase over my shoulder, and a very firm lecture playing in my head.
You are a professional.
You have just taken on your first big client.
Do not screw this up.
Ground rules:
Do not think about the client’s hand in yours.
Do not think about the client’s smile.
Do not imagine the client’s voice saying your name in that sexy accent.
And for the love of God, do not think about the sex dream you had about the client last night.
By the time the elevator reaches the thirty-second floor, I have failed at all four of them.
The elevator doors open, and I step out with my face arranged into what I hope is a calm, competent expression and not the face of a woman who woke up furious with her own subconscious.
Because honestly.
A sex dream.
Not even a vague one. Not even the merciful kind that disappears the second you wake up and leaves behind nothing but warmth and confusion.
No, my mind produced details. Like, all the details.
Even ones I couldn’t possibly know are accurate— or not.
Those long fingers gliding along my skin, that deep, dark Italian murmured in my ear, as he moved his hand down my stomach toward the apex of my thighs.
“Bella, you are so responsive for me.”
His lips closed around my nipple as those fingers slid into my wet heat.
I woke up with a gasp, my body on fire, my nipples tight little peaks. I was already so close that it only took a quick brush of my fingers to send me over the edge.
I lay there after I got my breathing under control, staring at my ceiling, and cursed Mario Conti for existing.
I am twenty-nine years old.
I have managed to go my entire adult life without having an inappropriate sex dream about a powerful, dangerous, and incredibly attractive client.
There is a reason for that.
Because it is a terrible, terrible idea.
A woman like me doesn’t get tangled up with men like Mario Conti. They eat women like me for breakfast and then go about their day as if nothing happened.
The thought of him eating me for breakfast sends another hot jolt through me, and I have to compose myself and take a deep breath.
One meeting.
Two handshakes.
That is all.
I am clearly unwell.
“Ms. Murray.”
I look up sharply.
Lorenzo Conti is walking toward me down the corridor, dressed in another flawless suit, this one charcoal with a pale blue shirt. He smiles easily, like I wasn’t just thinking about his brother’s head between my…
Stop!
“Good morning,” he says.
“Good morning.” I adjust the strap of my briefcase on my shoulder. “Mr. Conti.”
“Lorenzo,” he reminds me.
“Lorenzo,” I correct.
His smile deepens slightly, like he knows exactly how much effort that took. “We’re pleased to have you here.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the workspace.”
“Of course. It made sense to have you on-site for the first part of the review.”
“That was my thought as well.”
Or, more accurately, my thought was that if I am going to understand this company, I need to be inside the building where people forget they are being observed.
But I keep that part to myself.
Lorenzo gestures down the hall. “Before I show you to the office, there is someone I’d like you to meet.”
He leads me, and as we approach an office, a man steps out of it.
Even if I didn’t know him from my research, I would recognize him as a Conti immediately.
Ricardo Conti.
The second oldest brother.
He has the same dark hair and eyes, the same unmistakable Conti structure to his face, though there is something sharper about him than Lorenzo. Less polished charm. More restless energy under a tailored jacket.
He is handsome in the same dangerous family way, but where Lorenzo is measured and businesslike, Ricardo feels like a man who would happily dispose of someone not worth the inconvenience.
“Ricardo,” Lorenzo says. “Victoria Murray.”
Ricardo turns his attention to me.
It is not the same as Mario’s.
Thank God.
But it is still a Conti kind of attention. Direct, assessing, and uncomfortably pointed.
“Ms. Murray,” he says, extending his hand. “Good to meet you.”
“You too, Mr. Conti.”
“Ricardo,” he says.
I shake his hand. His grip is firm, his smile brief but not unfriendly.
“I’ve heard good things,” he says.
“Thank you. I’m looking forward to working with you all.”
“I’ll be available if you need anything from Operations,” Ricardo says. “Lorenzo will handle most of it, but some of the files and department heads fall under me.”
“That’s helpful. Thank you.”
“You’ll probably have questions.”
“I will,” I say. “But I’ll try to make them efficient. I won't bombard you with constant questions.”
“Don’t worry about that. I would rather you ask than feel like you can’t and be overwhelmed.” His mouth curves faintly. “Wouldn't want to scare you off.”
I smile. “Oh, I will. I just meant I'll gather all my questions first and send them over to you in one big haul. I'm not easily scared off,” I add before I can stop myself.
Both brothers look at me.
Excellent. Wonderful.
I have been here for less than five minutes, and already my mouth is writing checks my ass can’t cash.
Ricardo’s smile widens by a fraction. “Good. That will be useful here.”
There is no reason that should sound like a warning. Not at all.
Lorenzo turns smoothly back toward me. “Will your associates be joining you today?”
“Not today,” I say, grateful for the return to normal topics. “Benjamin and Ainsley will be working from our offices for the time being. I thought it made the most sense for me to work on-site initially, get a better understanding of internal processes, and then bring them in as needed.”
“Of course,” Lorenzo says. “That works well for us.”
Ricardo nods once. “It’s great to meet you, Ms. Murray. I’m sure we’ll be seeing more of each other.”
“I’m sure.”
He gives Lorenzo a look too brief to read, then heads toward the elevator.
I watch him go for half a second before forcing my attention back where it belongs.
Lorenzo catches it anyway.
“We’re not all this intense,” he says.
I raise an eyebrow before I can stop myself. “Well, I've met three out of the four of you now, and I'm not sure that's true.”
His charming smile flickers. “All right. Most of us are.”
“That seems more believable.”
“Diego is less intense. I promise. You’ll meet him this afternoon.” He laughs and gestures for me to follow him. “Come. Your office is this way.”
We walk in the opposite direction from the conference room we used yesterday. The corridor curves around the central core of the floor, past more frosted glass, more closed doors, more art that looks expensive.
There is no noise here.
Phones are answered behind thick doors. Conversations happen in hushed voices. No one rushes. No one appears confused. Even the movement in this place feels organized.
It’s a bit unsettling.
Lorenzo stops outside an office on the far side of the building and opens the door. “This will be yours while you’re here.”
I step inside. Then stop.
For a second, I forget to be professional.
The office is beautiful.
Not huge or anything, but large enough that it is definitely not a spare room someone found for outside counsel.
The desk is sleek and dark, positioned near the windows but not directly in front of them.
There is a small sitting area with two chairs and a low table.
A bookshelf, currently empty. A credenza with a coffee machine, water, and a small tray of fruit.
A secure docking station already set up on the desk.
And the view.
Chicago stretches beyond the glass, all steel and stone and movement, the river cutting through the city like a dark ribbon.
Morning light hits the buildings at angles, turning windows gold and silver.
From here, the city looks less like something I have been fighting to survive in and more like something I could one day belong to.
I turn back to Lorenzo. “Wow.”
His smile is mild. “Will this work?”
“This is really too much.”
“It’s an office.”
“It is not just an office.”
“It has a desk. Chairs. A door. Very office-like.”
I give him a look.
His smile turns more genuine.
“It’s generous,” I say. “Thank you. But I don’t require this much space.”
“Mario disagreed.”
My stomach gives one small, deeply inconvenient twist at his name.
I hate that.
I hate my body.
I hate that I know exactly what Mario’s voice sounded like saying my name, and I hate that my mind immediately decides to replay some very inappropriate dreams just because Lorenzo mentioned him.
I set my briefcase down on the desk with care.
“That was thoughtful of him,” I say, because I am an adult woman and a practicing attorney and not a Victorian widow overcome by the mention of a man.
“Mario is many things,” Lorenzo says. “Thoughtful is one of them when he chooses to be.”
There is something in the phrasing that makes me look at him.
He is watching me, but not in an intrusive way. More like he is gathering information and politely pretending not to.
It must run in the family.
“I’ll make good use of it,” I say.
“I’m sure you will.”
He steps farther into the room and points toward the desk.
“Your access credentials are in the sealed envelope there. IT will come by within the hour to help with system access. The internal directory has been limited to the divisions relevant to your initial review. If you need anything expanded, tell me.”
“I will.”
“Coffee and water are stocked. If you prefer anything specific, let my assistant know.”
“This is more than enough.”
“That is rarely true.”
I almost smile. “I’m beginning to see that about this family.”
Lorenzo’s expression shifts with amusement, but there is caution beneath it. “We prefer to be prepared.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
There is a brief silence.
I glance toward the windows again, because looking at the city is easier than wondering whether Mario chose this office himself. Whether he stood here. Whether he looked at the view and decided this was where I should work.
No.
Absolutely not.
We are not doing this.
“Will Mr. Conti be in today?” I ask.
The question leaves my mouth in my most professional voice.
“For an initial interview,” I continue, hoping that it’s coming off as nonchalant as I think.
His eyes sharpen, though his smile remains exactly where it is.
“Of course. Mario is in the building.”
“Can you let me know if he’ll be available at some point today?”
“I can ask,” he says.
“Please do. It would be helpful to understand priorities directly from the chief executive.”
“That sounds very reasonable.” I hear a bit of amusement in his voice, if I’m not mistaken.
I do not react.
At least, I hope not.
Talking to the CEO is pretty standard in situations like this, and I’m not sure if telling him as much would seem too defensive or not, so I settle for: “I appreciate it.”
His smile says he does not entirely believe that is the only reason.
I decide I do not like Lorenzo Conti nearly as much today as I did yesterday.
“I’ll have my assistant coordinate,” he says. “In the meantime, I’ll send over the first group of documents. Nothing overwhelming.”
I look at him.
He holds up one hand. “All right. Possibly overwhelming. But organized.”
“That I can work with.”
“I thought you might.”
He moves toward the door, then pauses. “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“People here may be polite, but they won’t always be forthcoming.”
“I expected that.”
“I know.” His expression turns a little more serious. “That is why I’m saying this instead: if you need something, ask me directly. My office is right down the hall.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.
He nods, then he leaves me standing in an office with a fantastic view, a sealed envelope on the desk, and the very clear understanding that I have stepped into something much more complicated than a corporate compliance review.
I wait until the door closes.
Then I exhale.
“Great,” I mutter to myself.
My voice sounds too loud in the expensive room.
I walk to the desk, open my briefcase, and begin setting out my laptop, notebook, pens, and the folders I brought from my office. Normal things. Practical things. Things that should help me feel grounded.
They do not.
The space is too quiet. The view is too beautiful. The air still carries that faint, clean scent that seems to exist everywhere in this building, like polished stone and expensive cologne.
I press my palms flat on the desk, close my eyes for one second, and take a few deep breaths.
When I open my eyes, the empty business card holder on the desk catches my attention.
I take one of my cards from my briefcase and slide it into the holder.
Murray Legal Group.Victoria Murray
The sight of it steadies me a little.
That is who I am here.
That is who I need to remain.
My laptop powers on. I connect to the docking station, open the sealed envelope, and begin the process of logging into Conti’s secure system.
Five minutes later, there is a knock at the door.
I look up, expecting IT.
“Come in.”
The door opens.
Not IT.
Mario Conti stands in the doorway.
Dark suit, white shirt, no tie. Same impossible stillness. Same dark eyes moving over me as if he has all the time in the world and every reason to use it.
My pulse, traitorous and apparently fine with being unemployed, immediately reports for duty.
“Ms. Murray,” he says.
The accent hits me right where it shouldn’t.
I keep my hands on the keyboard.
“Mr. Conti,” I say. “Good morning.”