Chapter Seven
Victoria
By Friday afternoon, I have become a cautionary tale.
There is no other way to describe it.
I am sitting in my temporary office at Conti Headquarters with my laptop open, six files spread across the desk, a half-eaten protein bar at my elbow, and a headache taking up permanent residence right behind my right eye.
I have not slept. Or barely anyway.
Since Monday, sleep has become a place I visit briefly and leave worse than I arrived. I lie down exhausted enough to feel my bones ache, close my eyes, and almost immediately find myself back in Mario Conti’s office.
Against the window.
On his desk.
Or in his lap, which was Wednesday night’s contribution from the deranged theater of my subconscious.
Last night, I dreamed he held my wrists above my head in one hand, the other between my legs, and told me, in that low, accented voice, that I could ask all the questions I wanted as long as I was prepared for his answers.
Then, he unbuttoned his pants and…
I woke up at 2:46, shaking, hot, and furious.
Again.
Then I worked until dawn because apparently that is the only reasonable response to erotic psychological warfare being conducted by my own brain.
Now it is Friday, and I am not a person so much as a collection of caffeine, stubbornness, and poor decisions on unsteady heels.
The access audit has taken over my life.
Mario gave me full authority on Monday, which sounded thrilling for approximately eleven minutes.
Then reality arrived with forty-two user permission reports, conflicting department charts, inactive employee profiles that still had active credentials, and enough legacy access issues to make me question whether anyone in this company has ever heard the phrase least privilege.
To be fair, they have heard it now. Repeatedly.
In one tense conversation with a logistics director who tried to explain that his assistant needed access to archived manifests from eight years ago “just in case,” and then looked genuinely shocked when I asked him to define the case.
I had Ainsley running employee access comparisons from our office, Benjamin reviewing vendor permissions, and me camped out here like I planned to be buried beneath Conti letterhead.
By Thursday, I had identified thirty-seven redundant access points, twelve expired contractor accounts, five department heads with permissions they should never have had, and one shadow admin profile I couldn’t find an explanation for.
That last one is still sitting in my notes.
I have not told Mario yet. I figured getting confirmation first would be a better idea.
Also, if I am honest, I wanted one piece of information I could walk into his office with that would remind both of us why I am here.
I am here because I am good at my job.
Or maybe I’m the one who needs reminding of why I’m here.
Not because of his hands.
Not because of his mouth.
Not because of the amaretto still burned into my memory with startling clarity.
I am damn good at my job, I remind myself.
Even if I currently look like a woman who might burst into tears at the thought of something as simple as resetting a password.
A knock sounds at my door.
I do not look up. I suppress a sigh and the urge to rub my temples.
Probably someone else to complain that I took away their access to employee tax documents.
“Come in,” I call without looking up from my spreadsheet.
The door opens, and Lorenzo steps inside with his usual polished composure and a paper bag in one hand. He looks immaculate, because apparently the Conti men are prohibited from looking tired, rumpled, or spiritually defeated.
Or sexually frustrated.
“Ms. Murray.”
“Mr. Conti.”
His lips curve faintly. “When will you stop calling me that?”
“When you stop calling me Ms. Murray,” I reply pleasantly.
“Fair enough.” He steps farther into the room. I smell the food instantly. Fresh bread and something warm and tomato-bright.
My stomach gives a desperate lurch.
Lorenzo’s gaze moves over the desk, the empty coffee cup, the untouched water bottle, the files, then me.
It makes me want to sweep everything off the desk and hide it.
Then crawl under the desk and hide myself.
“You look busy,” he says.
“That is a very diplomatic way of phrasing whatever you were actually thinking.”
“I was actually thinking you look like you haven’t seen sunlight all week.”
I press my lips together. “I have seen sunlight.”
“Through a window?”
“Sunlight is sunlight.”
He sets the bag on the only empty corner of my desk. “My mother would have a fit if she saw how you are working.”
I blink. “Your mother?”
“She was a firm believer in food. And rest. In that order.” He unwraps the paper bag, and the scent of garlic and herbs fills the office. "Lunch."
I look at it.
Then at him.
“It’s 4:30.”
“Then it’s very late lunch or early dinner. Take your pick.”
“I ate.”
His gaze dips to the protein bar.
“That is not food.”
“It has eighteen grams of protein.”
“It’s sad."
Despite myself, I feel a smile tug at my lips. “My protein bar is sad?”
“Yes,” he says, completely serious. “It is the food of people who have forgotten how to live. My mother would cry.”
He pulls out a cardboard container. Steam escapes, carrying the most glorious smell of melted mozzarella I have ever encountered.
I don’t remember the last time I ate a hot meal that wasn’t made in a microwave.
Or the last time I was hungry for something other than a win.
“What is it?”
“A panino,” he says. “From a little place downtown. No one makes them better. Prosciutto, mozzarella, tomato, and a pesto that will make you weep.”
I might actually weep once the smell fully hits me. I am not sure it will be from the pesto.
“You are very persistent.”
“I have three brothers,” he says, as if that explains everything. “Persistence was a survival skill.”
There it is again. A small piece of the world they came from. A hint of the complicated Naples Diego spoke of.
I close my laptop with a soft click. “Okay.”
He looks pleased. “A wise choice.”
He divides the sandwich, which is on bread that looks like it was baked by angels, and hands me half.
I have had three conversations today about user permission protocols. I have stared at spreadsheets until the numbers began to swim. I have argued with a woman in payroll about why she shouldn’t have access to the security division’s incident reports.
And Lorenzo Conti just showed up with a panino.
I have never, in my entire career, been brought a panino.
I bite into it.
The bread is crisp on the outside, impossibly soft within. The prosciutto is salty, the mozzarella warm and creamy, the pesto bright with basil and garlic. It is, without question, the best thing I have put in my mouth in years.
I close my eyes.
It is so good it makes me want to cry.
Lorenzo watches me, a faint smile on his face. “See?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak until I’ve swallowed.
We eat in a comfortable silence that should be awkward but isn't. The only sounds are the rustle of the paper bag and the quiet city hum from the window.
He is not trying to get information. He is not trying to charm me into something.
He is just… here.
Sharing a sandwich.
It is more unsettling and comforting than any of the other meetings I've had this week.
“Did Diego send you?” I ask, gesturing to the food.
“Diego suggested someone intervene.”
“Intervene?” I ask amused.
“You have apparently alarmed him,” he says. “Diego is hard to alarm.”
I rub my forehead with two fingers. “I’m fine.”
“No one who says that this often is fine.”
“Just a busy week,” I say, trying to brush his concerns off.
“Ms. Murray,” he starts. “Victoria. If the amount of work is causing you to—”
“Oh, no,” I say quickly, then I flush because I realize I interrupted him. But I can’t have them thinking the work is too much for me. I set the sandwich down. “It’s not the work. I love the work. It’s not too much. It’s exactly the kind of work I want my firm doing.”
Lorenzo studies me for a moment.
Too closely.
Like he already sees it and is deciding whether to mention it.
“I believe you,” he finally says.
I exhale quietly, relieved that he didn’t ask for more details.
“But I also believe there is something else keeping you awake,” he continues.
The bite of panino turns to stone in my stomach.
“It has nothing to do with the work,” I assure him. “And it’ll pass.”
I hope.
“Only a short-term worry,” I continue.
Lorenzo’s mouth curves faintly. “That sounds like a phrase lawyers use when they do not want to explain themselves.”
“We’re very good at those. Occupational hazard,” I say, attempting to lighten the mood and get him off the subject because I would rather eat glass than tell Lorenzo Conti that the short-term worry currently destroying my sleep schedule is his older brother’s mouth in places it has no business being, even in my imagination.
But apparently, he’s not to be deterred.
“If you are going to do this work well, you need rest. Mario may give you impossible deadlines, but he does not actually benefit from you collapsing in this office.”
“That would be inconvenient for everyone.”
“Very. Paperwork, ambulances, emotional distress.”
I give him a look.
He smiles mildly.
“And if I collapse,” I say, “will your mother also blame you for failing to feed me properly?”
“She would have,” he says, and I notice the past tense use for the first time.
I’m sitting here making jokes about his dead mother.
Get a damn grip, Victoria.
“Then I’ll finish the sandwich,” I say.
“A wise legal strategy.”
By the time I shut down my laptop, the office is quiet in a way that feels almost like an accusation.
This isn’t the hushed quiet of the Conti Headquarters, either. It’s almost accusatory. Like I’ve been here way longer than I should’ve been.
The city beyond the windows has gone dark, the river reflecting broken lines of light from the buildings around it. My reflection hovers faintly in the glass, pale and tired and not at all the composed legal professional I have spent the last couple of weeks pretending to be.
I look terrible. Not disastrous, I suppose.