Chapter Sixteen
Mario
Monday morning, I have work to do.
A great deal of work.
There are acquisition documents on my desk, yet another call with Milan on my calendar, Ricardo’s latest operational report waiting in my inbox, and Victoria’s latest update of the access audit.
All of it requires my attention.
Naturally, I am thinking about anything but.
On my mind is a white box left on her desk.
A box with something lacy inside.
I am not sorry I tore the last set from her body.
The look on her face when I did was absolutely worth it, but I am not a careless man nor am I ignorant.
However much she liked it in the moment, it is still something of value I took from her.
So I replaced it.
Though perhaps not exactly.
Instead of the wine color, I chose a deep, dark blue.
A shade that makes me think of the sea and sky on a stormy night.
The color will suit her. Deep blue against her flawless skin. Dark enough to look almost black in dim light.
I want to see the lace against her skin. I want to watch her pull the panties up over her hips and fasten the bra. I want to see her expression when she sees how well the color suits her.
Then I want to rip it off her again.
I will enjoy watching the fabric shred in my hands. Enjoy knowing she is wearing something far too delicate to stop me.
Knowing she would not try.
Victoria Murray is not a woman who wants protection. She does not want a man who treats her as though she will shatter.
She wants to be taken.
To be used.
And to use in return.
Fuck.
My cock stirs again.
I cannot seem to focus.
I should not be thinking of this.
Yet I cannot help it.
Even now, in my office at headquarters, I am thinking about fucking her.
Right here, bent over my desk, taking it from behind.
On her knees, her mouth stretched around my cock.
On top of me, her hips moving faster, harder, her head tipped back, her perfect breasts bouncing with every thrust.
Fuck.
I adjust myself discreetly and shift my attention to the spreadsheet on the monitor.
My phone buzzes, and for one ridiculous moment, I think it is her.
Saying something.
Anything.
But no.
It is not.
It is Lorenzo.
Victoria has an issue with one of the access requests. He will email the details.
That is all.
My gaze shifts to the clock.
9:17.
She is here by now.
She is always on time. Usually early.
She must have found it by now, opened it. Run her fingers over the soft silk and lace.
I lean back in my chair and look toward the city beyond the windows.
What does she think?
Does she like it?
Did she try it on right away?
My body reacts to the image before I can stop it.
Victoria standing in her office, wearing nothing but midnight blue.
No.
I sit forward and reach for the top document on my desk.
Enough.
There are limits to how much time a man can spend thinking about a woman before he runs out of excuses for being completely unproductive.
I pick up my pen.
A brisk knock sounds at my door.
Then, without waiting for an answer, the door opens.
I look up, expecting one of my brothers or sons. The only ones who would walk into my office without waiting for an invitation.
A man steps inside as if this is any office. As if he has been invited.
I lift one brow.
The audacity is impressive.
Unwise, but impressive.
He is familiar in the vague way many employees are familiar to me. Mid-forties. Brown hair going thin at the temples. Narrow face. Expensive yet ugly tie.
I place him after a moment.
Peter Hanley.
Senior Logistics Compliance Manager under Ricardo’s division. Oversees regulatory documentation for domestic transport, warehouse certifications, and vendor shipment records.
He has been with the company since before I bought it and it became Conti Enterprises.
“Mr. Conti,” he says, shutting the door behind him. “I apologize for coming in directly, but I need to speak with you.”
I look at the closed door.
Then back at him.
“Do you?”
He takes two steps closer to my desk, irritation swirling around him. Completely oblivious.
Like a small animal wandering into the territory of a predator.
“Yes. It’s about Ms. Murray’s access audit.”
I set my pen down, already making plans to contact Ricardo and have this taken care of.
But I say, “What of Ms. Murray’s access audit?"
“Sir, she revoked my access to the executive travel calendar, the leadership compensation summaries, and the security incident archive.”
I stare at him.
For a moment, I think I must have misheard him.
Surely, no one would come to me for something so… petty and small.
And yet, here he stands.
In my office. As if he has every right to be here.
“And?” I respond.
“And,” he says, as if I have somehow failed to grasp the severity of the crisis. “Those systems are essential to my role.”
I lean back in my chair.
“How so?”
“I oversee domestic transport compliance,” he says, as if it should be obvious.
“And domestic transport compliance requires visibility into executive compensation?”
His jaw tightens. “Not directly, no, but—”
“And my travel calendar?”
“That can affect transport operations.”
“Can it?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
He hesitates, thrown off by the question. Like he never expected anyone to question it.
“Well,” he says, shifting slightly, “executive movement can affect scheduling, driver availability, secure transport allocation—”
“You do not coordinate executive movement.”
“No, but I used to work closely with the Executive Operations team.”
“Used to,” I repeat.
His mouth closes.
I let the silence sit between us.
Peter Hanley does not enjoy silence.
Men like him rarely do.
It took me all of two seconds to read him and know exactly the kind of man he is.
The kind who doesn’t like that a third party, especially a woman, took away access.
The kind who believes he is owed information without question.
Information about me.
And Victoria took that access away, and he doesn’t like it.
I already knew that hiring Murray Legal Group was the right decision. I knew that the tactics Victoria and her partners employed were more aggressive than the previous firm we tried.
But it has now become even more evident that I made the correct choice.
The old firm was more concerned with covering their ass and avoiding liability than with solving the actual problem.
Their solution was a patch over a rotting wall.
They did not tear down the building and cause stirs among the people inside.
Victoria Murray did.
Peter Hanley and others like him are the problems she was hired to find.
But he is certainly the first to come barging into my office demanding access to information not essential to his role in the company.
And he'll be the last.
It's almost impressive, actually.
But painfully stupid.
I have never been one to admire stupidity.
“Sir,” he says, but I can see that his brain is finally starting to function again. He swallows and looks around, as if just realizing where the hell he is and what he’s doing. “Sir, the access was granted for a reason.”
Now he’s trying to save face, but his face is reddening. It won’t be long before sweat starts dripping down his face.
“Yes,” I say. “For a position you no longer hold.”
He licks his lips, and his eyes dart around.
“My-my role still intersects with—”
“With warehouse certifications, vendor shipment records, regulatory documentation, and transport audit trails, yes?”
“Yes, sir.” Then he seems to gather his bravery enough for one more try. “With respect, Mr. Conti, that is a very narrow view of my responsibilities.”
“With respect, Mr. Hanley,” I say, the danger in my tone clear now, even to someone as thick as Peter Hanley, “I am the one who decides the scope of your responsibilities.”
“Well-well, I’m sure Ms. Murray is very capable,” he says, apparently changing his tune about her because he realized he stepped into it.
I feel my patience thin dangerously.
“But there is institutional knowledge here,” he continues. “Some of us have been with the company long enough to know why certain things were done the way they were done.”
“And yet, you have been unable to provide a single example to me or Ms. Murray as to why the information you requested is relevant to your current responsibilities or how it will improve them, nor have you been able to explain how your lack of access will prevent you from performing your job satisfactorily.”
“As I explained to Ricardo on Friday,” he says, “I need to see the bigger picture.”
“And what did he say?”
“He dismissed my concerns,” Peter says indignantly, firing back up again. “He said that Ms. Murray was correct in removing the access.”
“So you decided to skirt the chain of command and come directly to me.”
“I-I expected my access to be reinstated by today, but when I got in—”
“I can’t imagine why you would think so. Then again, I suppose even a direct answer can miss its mark when there is nothing substantial for it to strike.”
He opens his mouth as if to speak, then shuts it.
Miraculously, I think he understood I just called him dumb.
“The issue,” I continue, steel in my voice, “is not that Ms. Murray does not understand your old access. She understands it perfectly. You had permissions attached to a prior role, and when you moved departments, those permissions were not revoked.”
His jaw works, and his eyes are growing a bit desperate.
“That was not misconduct on my part.”
“No,” I say. “That was incompetence from the people who allowed it to continue. What is becoming clear is entitlement from you.”
His eyes flash before he controls it.
“Mr. Conti—”
“Entitlement,” I continue, “in thinking that you need access to my personal travel and compensation. Entitlement in thinking that you are somehow more capable of discerning whether the firm that I personally vetted and hired is doing the job correctly.”
His face pales. It’s one thing to barge into my office. It’s another entirely to imply I don’t know what I’m doing or that he somehow knows better than me.
“Entitlement in thinking I have nothing better to do than handle petty complaints from employees who have lost access to information they should not have had in the first place.”