Chapter Sixteen #2
What color was left in his face is completely gone.
The man may have some survival instincts yet
“I—no, sir. That is not what I meant.”
“Then what did you mean?”
“I only meant—”
“You came into my office without invitation.”
He goes still, like a deer finally scenting the hunter.
“You bypassed your department head after he gave you an answer you did not like.”
“I was trying to resolve—”
“You questioned a directive issued as part of a review I approved.”
His mouth closes.
“Everything Ms. Murray has done has been with my complete and total approval,” I say. “Every permission revoked. Every system restricted. Every question asked. She has the authority because I gave it to her.”
“Of course,” he stutters. “I understand. I-I-I apologize.”
“If you want complete access to my company, Mr. Hanley, then make me an offer. Otherwise,” I continue, voice quiet, “get the hell out of my office and go back to work.”
For a second, he does not move.
Then he remembers himself.
“Yes, Mr. Conti.”
He turns too quickly, his shoulder catches on the doorframe on the way out.
I watch the door close behind him.
The office is silent again, but I am no longer calm.
Anger and something else churn inside me, something that feels a great deal like the desire to hunt. To find him. To drag him back into this office.
To make an example of him.
To the office.
To the entire damn city, show them what happens to men who overstep.
I smell blood in the air, and the urge to spill it courses through me.
I breathe out slowly, letting it leave me.
It is not the time. Not yet.
I pick up the phone and call Ricardo.
He answers on the second ring.
“Mario.”
“My office. Now,” I snarl.
I hang up.
Then I look toward the door.
My assistant’s desk sits directly outside my office. That is the point of it. Anyone who wants access to me goes through him first unless I have specifically instructed otherwise.
Peter Hanley should never have reached my door.
I walk to the door and open it.
The desk is empty.
My assistant’s chair sits pushed back. His computer is locked. His coffee mug is gone.
I look down the hall.
One of my private security is stationed near the far corner, discreet but visible. Rocco Marinelli. Thirty-eight. Former military police who made the journey across the ocean with us.
I crook two fingers.
Rocco is at my door within seconds.
“Signore.”
“How long has Eric been gone?”
His gaze flicks briefly to the empty assistant’s desk.
“About thirty minutes.”
Thirty minutes.
My jaw tightens.
I feel my temper settle and cold quiet wash through me.
Anyone who knows me understands this is worse than anger.
Anger burns hot and fast.
This is calculation.
Rocco knows me. His expression does not change, but his posture sharpens.
“Thank you,” I say.
Right on cue, footsteps come from around the corner.
Eric Bellamy appears carrying a coffee mug in one hand and his phone in the other.
He stops short when he sees me standing beside his desk.
Then he sees Rocco.
Then his face changes into one of guilt.
“Mr. Conti,” he says quickly. “I was just getting coffee.”
“Does it take half an hour to get coffee?” I ask, my voice low.
His mouth opens. “No, I— There were a lot of people in the kitchen waiting, and then I ran into someone from finance who needed to ask about the calendar for—”
“Do not lie to me.”
The color drains from his cheeks.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “It won’t happen again.”
“No,” I say. “It will not.”
His eyes widen.
“Sir?”
“I pay you to do a job,” I say. “That job does not include leaving your desk for half an hour to drink coffee and talk while unauthorized employees walk into my office.”
“I didn’t know anyone—”
“Because you were not here.”
He swallows.
“I apologize. Truly. I can explain.”
“You already tried.”
His mouth closes.
I look at Rocco.
“I want Mr. Bellamy out of my building in five minutes.”
Eric’s face changes to one of panic. “What?”
“Collect his badge,” I continue. “Take it to Ms. Murray and instruct her to revoke his security credentials immediately.”
Eric’s mouth falls open. “Mr. Conti, please. I made one mistake.”
I turn back toward my office.
“Rocco.”
“Yes, signore.”
“Company phone and laptop. Nothing leaves this floor.”
“Understood.”
I step into my office.
Eric is still standing there open-mouthed when I close the door.
Not a minute later, Ricardo walks in with his brows lifted.
“Your assistant is crying and putting things in a box.”
I sit behind my desk and pick up my pen again. “You know how I feel about incompetence.”
“Yes,” Ricardo says, closing the door behind him. “I do.”
I sign the document in front of me, then set it aside. “Peter Hanley.”
Ricardo’s expression changes immediately.
Ricardo is too subtle for a dramatic reaction, but there is a slight tightening around his mouth, a flicker of disgust in his eyes.
“Yes,” he says. “I’m familiar.”
“Well, he barged into my office not too long ago and complained about his access being revoked.”
Ricardo’s brows go up again. “He barged into your office,” he repeats, slowly.
“Yes. Made himself right at home, then proceeded to complain to me.”
Ricardo is silent for a beat.
Then his mouth curves faintly. “I’ll admit, I didn’t think Hanley had the balls for that.”
“I don’t think it was balls,” I say. “I think it was stupidity.”
“Fair.” He steps farther into the room. “And that explains the assistant crying and packing his desk.”
“Defeats the purpose of an assistant if he's not here to keep unimportant people out of my office.”
Ricardo nods once, accepting that. “What do you want me to do about Hanley? Fire him?”
“One of the drawbacks of legitimate business,” I say, “is that you cannot simply fire someone because he irritates you. We open ourselves up to lawsuits.”
“Ah, yes,” Ricardo says. “Americans do love suing.”
“Unfortunately, he has not done anything to warrant it.”
I look him in the eye.
“So find something,” I say. “I want that man out of my building as soon as legally possible.”
Ricardo smirks.
“Done.”
Soon after Ricardo leaves, I sit back down, pull the next document toward me, and make the mistake of believing I might finally get some work done.
The knock comes less than two minutes later.
Two lazy taps followed by the door opening before I answer.
I look up.
Diego walks in.
“Tell me, Diego,” I say pleasantly, “did someone place a welcome mat at my door?”
Diego ignores that and continues inside. “Let me get this straight.”
“No.”
“Last week,” he says, undeterred, “you warn me away from the pretty lawyer because of ‘professionalism.’”
He lifts both hands and puts professionalism in the air between his fingers.
My eyes narrow.
“This week, I find out that professionalism is perfectly flexible when you are the one who wants to sleep with her.”
I set my pen down.
Carefully.
“I swear, the men in this family cluck like hens more than the old women after church.”
Diego just smiles. “Yeah. You were trying to keep that a secret, weren’t you? Sleeping with the lawyer. You should’ve known better.”
“That was no one’s business,” I say. “And it still isn’t.”
“Of course.”
His tone is too agreeable.
I dislike it immediately.
He lowers himself into the chair across from my desk without being invited. That is the difference between brothers and employees. Employees can be fired. Brothers must be endured.
“Do sit,” I say.
“Thank you.” He settles in comfortably and crosses one ankle over his knee. “I am only trying to understand the rules.”
“The rules are simple. Get out.”
He ignores that too. “You thought I had so little self-control that I needed to be warned away from sleeping with the lawyer we hired. The lawyer who has access to personal, confidential, and potentially damaging information about our company.”
He pauses and smiles. “Is that correct?”
I give him a look because he’s obviously not talking about himself. He’s talking about me.