Chapter Six
Mario
She does not look at my door.
She looks straight ahead, her shoulders back, her briefcase in one hand and a tablet in the other. She is wearing a navy dress today with a structured jacket over it, dark stockings, and heels muted on the ground as she walks determinedly to my office.
Every step she takes is deliberately professional.
I appreciate that.
Even as I want to see what it would take to make her lose it.
She reaches my door, pauses for one breath, then knocks.
“Come in.”
The door opens.
She steps inside, and I see up close why Diego mentioned the lack of sleep.
He was not exaggerating.
There are faint circles under her eyes. Her makeup is applied expertly to hide it, but it cannot entirely erase the weariness. Her jaw is tight, her posture controlled, her energy carefully contained.
She is exhausted.
And she is annoyed at herself for it.
That is more interesting to me than anything she might say about risk management.
Dreams, Diego said. Though she clearly hadn't meant to say it.
I wonder what her dreams entail.
I wonder what she would do if I asked.
Nothing good, surely.
And nothing I should want to find out.
Still, those eyes, exhausted or not, sweep the room when she walks in, and, again, I wonder what it is she sees when she takes it in.
My office is on the corner of the building, windows on two sides looking over the river and the city I now control. There is nothing left of the previous CEO, who preferred dark and heavy furniture.
Mine is light and modern. Clean lines, pale wood, glass.
There is no clutter.
There is a small bar hidden behind panels where I keep the expensive scotch Ricardo prefers, the tequila Diego likes, and the bottle of amaretto Lorenzo still drinks after all these years.
There are also no family photographs.
No mementos.
No history.
My office is a place of work. It is not a home.
Her gaze returns to my face.
“Mr. Conti.”
“Ms. Murray.”
I gesture to the chair opposite my desk. “Please.”
She walks to the chair and sits.
She sets her briefcase on the floor beside her, places the tablet on her lap, and folds her hands in front of her.
Her posture is impeccable.
Her expression is unreadable.
She is ready.
She is here for a meeting I called without warning and is prepared despite that.
The exhaustion is still there, but it no longer matters.
Across from me now is not a woman who missed sleep.
It is a lawyer who has come to do her job.
My respect for her deepens.
That is dangerous.
“I assume Diego gave you the files,” I say.
“He did.”
“And you reviewed them?”
“I started to review them.”
I lift a brow.
“I also spent the weekend reviewing all the documentation provided by your legal team,” she adds before I can ask. “And the initial reports from the risk management department. And the security contracts for the last three years.”
She did all of that since Friday afternoon.
She is either extremely efficient or extremely paranoid.
Probably both.
“I prepared a preliminary proposal,” she says, her voice calm and even. “Which I can present to you now, or I can wait until I have completed my review of the security files.”
“I want to hear your preliminary proposal.”
She nods, as if that is what she expected, and her fingers move over the tablet. The screen brightens, her face illuminated by the cool light.
Her focus shifts.
The fatigue that lingered in her face a moment ago vanishes, replaced by an intensity that is both compelling and intimidating.
She is no longer in my office.
She is in her element.
“Based on my initial assessment, your primary exposure is not in the areas you might expect,” she begins.
“Your financial structures, while complex, are well-documented and defensible. Your operational security is strong, though there are gaps in inter-departmental communication that could be exploited.”
She swipes to a new screen.
“Your greatest risk is human.”
I lean forward slightly.
“The most significant vulnerabilities I’ve identified so far are tied to loyalty and access,” she says.
“Specifically, the lack of a formalized, consistently enforced protocol for how employees, particularly long-term employees, access sensitive information across divisions. You have people who have been with the company since the previous ownership who still have the same level of access they had ten years ago, often in areas that are no longer relevant to their roles.”
She looks up from her tablet, and her eyes meet mine.
“There are three individuals, all senior-level, who have access to everything from your logistics manifests to your personnel files to your preliminary architectural blueprints for a new distribution center that is still in the planning stages. None of those things is relevant to their current positions. Yet they can access them.”
She swipes again.
“Your family,” she says, and her tone does not change, though the subject is more delicate.
“Operates on a system of informal authority that is efficient, but also creates blind spots.
Your brothers have access to everything.
Do their second-in-commands? At what level does that trust extend?
And is it the same level for all of them?
“The training policies Diego mentioned are a good start, but they are reactive. They outline what happens after a breach. They do not proactively limit the possibility of one.”
She stops.
She has laid out the problem in stark, clear terms.
She has not named names or made accusations. She has identified a structural weakness that could bring the entire thing down and offered it to me without a hint of judgment.
“What is your recommendation?” I ask.
My interest is no longer professional. I’m not sure it ever was. I am fascinated.
Her fingers move across the screen again.
“My recommendation is a three-phased approach.”
Of course it is. Victoria is a woman who likes plans.
“Phase one,” she says. “Immediate access audit. All personnel. Family included. We identify redundant access, unnecessary permissions, and shadow accounts. We clean it. Within a week.”
“A week is aggressive.”
“It is necessary,” she counters. “And achievable. With your cooperation.”
Her eyes meet mine, and the challenge is subtle, but it is there.
“Phase two,” she continues. “A tiered access protocol, formalized, enforced, and tied directly to role-based responsibilities. We also implement a system of temporary access grants that expire automatically and require senior-level approval for renewal.”
Her mind is a beautiful thing to watch. Sharp, organized, relentless.
“Phase three,” she says. “Integration. We create a culture of accountability that is not punitive, but protective. We train employees to understand that limiting access is not an accusation. It’s a defense. For the company. For them. For you.”
She falls silent.
She has given me more in five minutes than my last three advisors gave me in six months.
And she has done it on very little sleep.
She is looking at me, waiting for a response. Her face is still, but there is a flicker of something in her eyes. A question.
She is asking me if I’m serious.
If I want solutions, or if I want someone to agree with me.
I have spent years surrounded by men who fear my questions, who agree without question. It is the way my father demanded it.
It is also why his own empire never grew past Naples.
“Do it,” I say.
Her expression does not change, but I feel the shift in the room. The subtle release of tension.
“Do it,” I repeat. “All three phases. You will have full authority and unlimited resources.”
Her eyes widen slightly, just for a second.
She expected negotiation. Resistance. A request for a more detailed proposal.
She did not expect this.
“That’s…” She stops, searching for the word. “A significant delegation of authority.”
“It is.”
She is quiet for a long moment.
Then she nods once. A short, sharp gesture.
“Okay,” she says.
And in that one word, she has accepted more than a job. She has stepped into the heart of the machine.
And I have let her.
The thought is followed by another, one I should ignore.
I want to see her in here again. I want to see her behind my desk, not as an intruder, but as a partner.
The idea is so dangerous that I almost laugh.
Instead, I lean back in my chair. “Begin with the access audit. I want the names by the end of the day.”
She blinks. “Today?”
“Yes.”
Her chin lifts a fraction of an inch. That determination again. The refusal to be intimidated by the impossible.
Or by me.
“Done,” she says.
“Do you need anything from me?”
“A current organizational chart with formal and informal reporting structures,” she says. “Including the family.”
“You’ll have it within the hour.”
She nods and picks up her tablet.
I have dismissed her, but she does not stand. She sits there for a beat, looking at me, and I see the question she is deciding whether to ask.
“Something else, Ms. Murray?”
She sets the tablet down.
Her hesitation is brief, but noticeable.
“Diego said something to me this morning,” she says.
My attention sharpens. Diego is many things, but careless is not one of them. “Did he?”
“He said he had been warned away.”
I keep my expression still.
“And that surprised you.”
Her gaze is direct. Unflinching. “It did. I am here to do a job. I did not expect the parameters of that job to include who I am permitted to speak with.”
“You can speak with anyone you need to.”
“Then why would he say he was warned away?”
“It was not a reflection on you,” I say
“Then what was it a reflection on?”
“On him."
Her brows draw together slightly.
“Diego is charming,” I say. “He is also occasionally impulsive, and you are beautiful,” I say the words simply, as a statement of fact.
For the first time since she walked into my office, hell, into the building, I see Victoria's composure fray. She blinks rapidly a few times. A faint flush rises from her collar, creeping up her throat.
It's a reaction I hadn't counted on, and I like it very much.
It's a reaction that makes me want to push further.