Chapter Twenty Four
Mario
It is not that complicated.
Nothing currently on my desk is complicated.
A contract revision from legal. A revised operations summary from Lorenzo. A message from Ricardo that says only Hanley is becoming inconvenient, which means Ricardo has already found something worth terminating over and is deciding when exactly to slip the knife in.
Normal things.
Things that need my attention.
Instead, I am looking at my phone. Again.
No message.
I set it facedown on my desk.
Then turn it over thirty seconds later.
Still nothing.
I do not like this.
Victoria left my house Saturday smiling. Tired, yes. Overwhelmed, certainly. Carrying a bag of lingerie she argued against taking until she finally accepted it with an expression of guilty pleasure.
When I dropped her at her apartment, she kissed me before she got out of the car. Lingered over it long enough to have me mussing her hair and leaving her breathless, but she left smiling.
I messaged her yesterday.
Nothing demanding or unreasonable.
Just checking in with a simple message that should have earned me something.
A sarcastic reply. An objection. A complaint about my tone. Anything.
Instead, silence.
And today, nothing.
It is still early. I know this. She may not be in the office yet. She may be preparing for her day.
That thought does not improve my mood.
I lean back in my chair and tap one finger against the armrest.
I expected more from her.
Not much. Not constant communication. I am not a boy waiting by a telephone, no matter how much my brothers would enjoy suggesting otherwise.
But something.
After Friday. After Saturday morning. After the way she looked at me in my bed, soft and sleepy and warm under my sheets.
Anything.
A knock comes at the door.
It is sharp and controlled.
So not Victoria.
My mood cools into the familiar professional.
“Avanti.”
The door opens, and Dante steps inside.
Julia O’Brien is with him.
My memories of her from years ago as a carefree college student, running into trouble with my nephew, plus the more recent photos of her, polished and composed, running charity events, attending political dinners, merge, yet… the picture I get isn’t quite what I was expecting.
At twenty-five, she hasn’t changed much physically. Red hair worn smooth and neat, green eyes, pale skin, freckles dusted lightly over the bridge of her nose and across her cheeks. Irish-American, unmistakably.
Polished and sophisticated, yes. She wears navy. Simple yet expensive. Conservative enough for an interview, tailored enough to tell me she knows exactly how she looks when she walks into a room.
But her eyes tell a different story. There is a carefulness there beneath the polish that didn’t used to be there.
Something guarded. She smiles when she is supposed to smile, stands where she is supposed to stand, offers the right amount of confidence without arrogance, but I can see the strain at the edges.
Around her mouth. In the stillness of her hands.
In the way Dante stands half a step behind her, too close for a casual introduction and too tense for a man only bringing in an old friend for an interview.
Interesting.
“Zio Mario,” Dante says. “Julia O’Brien.”
Julia steps forward and offers her hand.
“Mr. Conti. Thank you for seeing me.”
Her voice is composed, clear, but careful. This is a woman used to speaking in rooms where every word might be repeated later by a journalist, an acquaintance, or a lawyer.
I stand and take her hand.
Firm grip. No trembling or wavering.
“Ms. O’Brien.”
“Julia is fine.”
I release her hand and gesture to the chair across from my desk.
“Please sit.”
She does.
Dante remains by the door.
I look at him. “Thank you.”
It is a dismissal.
He hears it but does not move.
Julia glances back at him. Her expression does not soften, exactly, but something passes between them. Familiarity. Warning. Perhaps both.
His jaw tightens.
His eyes move to me, then back to her.
I see it more clearly then. Not ownership, but protective. Definitely something there.
Dante exhales through his nose, then steps back.
“I’ll be outside.”
“Find Lorenzo,” I say. “Make yourself useful.”
His mouth flattens.
Julia lowers her gaze for half a second, and I suspect she is hiding a smile.
Dante leaves.
For a moment, silence.
Julia turns back to me. “I apologize.”
“You are not responsible for Dante.”
“No,” she says. “You’re right. I’ll save my apology for something more important.”
That almost earns a smile from me.
“Do you find you need to apologize often, Ms. O’Brien?”
Her hands remain folded in her lap. “No. I prefer to correct the problem before it reaches that point.”
That earns my attention.
“Efficient,” I say.
“Necessary,” she replies. “Apologies rarely fix what preparation could have prevented.”
Good. She has a spine.
I sit and pick up the resume she sent yesterday morning.
Organized, references included. No embellishment. No unnecessary language. Exactly the kind of document I prefer.
I told Dante Saturday night to arrange this, and by Sunday morning, her resume and references were in my inbox. Now, here she is, promptly on Monday morning.
I like efficiency.
“You went to Yale,” I say. “For political science.”
“Initially,” she says. “I added nonprofit management and public policy coursework later.”
“You spent time in Naples.”
“Two semesters abroad.”
“That is where you met Dante.”
“Yes.”
“And you have remained friends since.”
Her answer comes half a beat slower. “Yes.”
There it is again. It’s not hesitation exactly, but caution.
There’s definitely a bit of contention there.
Where does it stem from?
I look down at the resume. “You have spent the last several years working with charitable foundations, galas, donor relations, philanthropic boards. That does not sound much like administrative support.”
“No,” she says. “It is not.”
“Then why are you interested in this position?”
Her hands are folded in her lap. Perfectly still.
“I am looking for quieter work.”
“That is the word Dante used as well, Ms. O’Brien,” I say and lean back in my chair. “Why the change?”
She meets my eyes without hesitation. “I am not asking you to hire me under false pretenses, Mr. Conti. I know this would be a change from the work I have been doing. I also know that high-level administrative support requires discretion, organization, excellent communication, quick judgment, and the ability to manage competing priorities without becoming emotional about them.”
All true. But none of it answers my question.
I let the silence stretch.
She does not rush to fill it, which is another point in her favor.
“All of those skills qualify you for the position,” I say, then wait a beat. “It is also obvious that you have spent the last few years working around politicians.”
Her mouth tightens slightly.
Ah, there’s the point of contention.
“Why the change?” I ask again.
This time, she does not answer immediately.
Her gaze stays on mine, but something shutters behind it. A mix of fear and calculation. The decision of how much truth to offer a man she does not know and has no choice but to trust.
“I needed the change,” she admits.
The truth, finally. Not the whole truth, no, but closer.
I debate whether I want to force more truth out of her or not, and decide to let her sit halfway.
She clearly doesn’t want to mention her broken engagement, and I know Dante wouldn’t bring her into our home if there was a chance it would hurt us, so I leave it for now.
“Your father is a judge with influence in this city.”
“Yes,” she says carefully.
“You understand that creates complications.”
“My father creates complications by existing.”
This time, I do smile faintly.
Her mouth curves in return.
“What does Judge O’Brien think of you working here?”
“He does not know I am interviewing here.”
“Will that become a problem?”
“Not for you.”
That is not the same as no.
I note it and move on.
“You understand the nature of this company.”
“I understand Conti Enterprises is a private holdings and management company with interests in hospitality, logistics, real estate, security, and several ongoing acquisitions.”
“You speak Italian?”
“Yes, as well as Spanish, French, and Mandarin conversationally. I’m learning German as well.”
“Tell me what you think this job is,” I say.
“I think you need someone outside your family who can manage access to you without being intimidated by the people who want it.”
Accurate.
“I think you need someone organized enough to run your schedule, communications, internal requests, visitors, documents, and office flow without needing to be watched.”
Also accurate.
“And,” she adds, “I think you recently had someone fail in that exact position, which means your tolerance for error is probably low.”
My mouth curves.
“Extremely.”
“I prefer clear expectations.”
“You would have them.”
“Good.”
There is steel under the polish.
I like that.
A polished charity woman would be useless to me. One with discipline, connections, a strong stomach, and something to prove may be another matter.
“Why should I hire you?” I ask.
“Because I am competent, discreet, and available immediately.”
“Many people are competent.”
“Not many people are competent in rooms with power.”
I hold her gaze.
“No,” I say. “They are not.”
Her fingers tighten once in her lap, then relax.
“You should also know,” she says, “that I am not looking for charity. From you or from Dante.”
“Dante got your foot in the door. He does not decide who I hire nor influence whether I am satisfied with your work.”
“Good,” she says, and I believe she means it.
“Just to cover our ground, your father’s name earns you nothing either.”
“I would prefer it didn’t,” she says carefully. “In fact, I would prefer he has nothing to do with this.”
I look at her for a long moment.
A judge’s daughter asking me, in my office, to tell her father nothing.
Yes, there is a story here.
Dante knows more of it than he said Saturday night. Not for long.
“Your personal life remains personal until it touches my business,” I say.
She hesitates before answering. “I understand.”
“If it does touch my business, you tell me before I discover it myself.”
“I understand.”
“And if I hire you, Dante does not hover outside my office every time you enter it.”
Her mouth presses together.
This time, she is definitely hiding a smile.
“I will speak with Dante.”
“Do better than speak.”
A flash of humor lights her eyes. “You and Dante are more alike than he would enjoy hearing.”
I laugh once under my breath.
She has courage.
Or no instinct for self-preservation.
Possibly both.
“You may start on a probationary basis,” I say. “Thirty days. If you find you are not suited for the position, you will let me know. If I find you are not suited for the position, I will say so.”
“I would expect nothing less.”
“Human resources will handle the formal paperwork. You will work directly outside this office. You will have access to information you do not discuss. Under any circumstances.”
“I can handle that.”
“Yes,” I say, studying her. “I suspect you can.”
Something in her expression shifts. I wouldn’t label it relief exactly.
But a small loosening, as if she had prepared herself to be dismissed, doubted, questioned past the point of dignity.
I do not give comfort for free, and I certainly do not give it in interviews.
But I understand pride.
Especially wounded pride.
“I expect punctuality,” I say. “More importantly, honesty. If you do not know something, say so. If you make a mistake, say so before I find out myself.”
“Understood.”
“And Ms. O’Brien?”
“Yes?”
“I do not care who your father is, who you nearly married, or what people in those circles think of your choices. I care whether you can do the work.”
Her throat moves.
For the first time since she walked in, something unguarded reaches her eyes for just a moment.
Then it is gone.
“I can do the work,” she says confidently.
I nod once.
“Good.”
The interview is over.
We both stand.
I come around the desk and gesture toward the door.
I open the door for her.
Ricardo is already coming down the hall.
His attention is on his phone, thumb moving over the screen, but he looks up before he reaches us. He always does this. Ricardo has never walked into a space without knowing who occupies it.
His steps slow.
Not much.
Barely enough for anyone else to notice.
I notice.
“Ricardo,” I say.
His gaze moves from me to her.
For one second, his expression does not change at all. Then something subtle passes through his eyes. Recognition first. Then assessment. Then something darker, gone before anyone would know it had been there.
“Julia O’Brien,” he says.
Her name sounds different in his voice.
Not warm. Not cold.
“Mr. Conti,” she says.
“Ricardo,” he corrects.
A faint pause.
Then she gives him the smallest polite nod. “Ricardo.”
I watch them both.
Julia’s composure is perfect. Too perfect. Her hands remain still at her sides, her chin lifted, her mouth calm. But the carefulness I saw in my office sharpens now, focused entirely on my brother.
Ricardo, for his part, looks at her the way he looks at problems he does not yet have enough information to solve.
“Julia will be starting on a probationary basis,” I say.
Ricardo’s gaze returns to mine.
There is a question there.
Several, actually.
He asks none of them in front of her.
“Then welcome to Conti Enterprises,” he says, looking back at Julia.
“Thank you.”
A perfectly professional exchange.
Dante rounds the corner and stops when he sees the three of us.
His eyes go first to Julia.
Then to his father.
“Dante,” I say. “Show Julia to HR.”
He nods and gestures to Julia to follow him.
“Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Conti,” she tells me and holds her hand out to shake mine.
I take her hand. “Show gratitude by doing the work well.”
Her grip tightens slightly. “I intend to.”
“Good,” I say, releasing her. “Then welcome to Conti Enterprises.”
Julia steps past Ricardo with a smile, and Ricardo moves aside to let her pass, careful not to make contact.
Neither Dante nor Julia notice.
Ricardo watches them go, his expression unreadable.
Only when they disappear around the corner does he look back at me.
“Well,” he says. “That should be interesting.”
Yes. Interesting.
Very interesting.