Chapter Fifteen
Erica
My cubicle is parked right outside Nico’s office, close enough that I can hear his door handle when it turns, close enough that anyone headed for him has to pass me first.
I’m always in before he is.
Today is no different.
Staring at the same dual monitors, the same stack of reports that was here on Friday when I shut everything down.
On Friday, when everything was different.
The office is quiet in that early-morning way where every sound feels amplified. The tap of my keyboard. The distant whir of the printer warming up. Somewhere on the other side of the building, someone sets a mug down a little too hard.
Conti Operations is sleek, efficient.
Polished floors. Dark trim. Glass walls around the conference room and bullpen so everything looks open without actually being open. The lighting is warm instead of fluorescent-bright, like someone thought about the fact that people work here all day.
It’s expensive without being showy.
There’s a lounge area with two low couches and a coffee table that never gets cluttered because I don’t let it. A small coffee station with an espresso machine and a neat row of mugs. A couple of framed prints that are abstract enough to be meaningless, but nice enough.
A solid door. Dark wood. No window. No glass.
No view in or out. It’s a sealed space where he manages the family’s clubs and bars—staffing, vendors, licensing, repairs, security, VIPs, HR issues, and the emergencies that always seem to happen at 2:00 in the morning when the rest of the world is asleep.
And I manage him.
His calendar. His calls. His email. His paperwork. The meetings he hates but knows are necessary.
My stomach is a mess.
It’s not the Monday kind of nerves. It’s not first-day jitters. It’s a tight, sour coil that won’t unwind because I know he’ll walk through that door, and everything in my body will remember what my brain keeps trying to file away as one night.
A hotel suite.
Smooth sheets.
My arms trapped against my sides.
His voice in my ear, against my skin. His breath ghosting over my aching pussy.
I press my thighs together.
I stare at my inbox until the words blur, then force myself to focus.
A club manager sent three messages overnight. A bar is short two bartenders for Friday. Another one needs a new POS terminal. There’s a vendor dispute over a delivery window. A security report attached with three pages of details I should be reading carefully.
I open the security report.
I read the first line.
I don’t absorb it.
My heartbeat thumps in my throat like it’s trying to climb out.
I glance at the clock in the corner of my monitor.
6:47 a.m.
He usually gets here closer to 8:00.
Sometimes earlier if there was a problem the night before.
Sometimes later if he’s been out until dawn.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, then start moving again because stillness is dangerous. If I sit still, my mind turns toward the wrong things.
My foot starts bouncing under the desk.
I plant it flat and force it still.
I swallow hard and reach for my coffee.
The mug is empty.
Of course it is.
I never poured it because I’ve been sitting here waiting like an idiot, pretending I’m fine while my body is braced for the sound of the elevator and his footsteps and the click of his keycard.
I pick up the coffee mug and push back from my desk.
The espresso machine hums when I wake it, bright and cheerful, like it doesn’t know anything about the way my skin still feels too tight and too sensitive under my blouse.
I press the button for a double and watch the dark stream pour, hypnotized by it, grateful for something I can focus on that isn’t the memory of being pinned in place by his body and his voice. The smell hits—bitter, rich—and my stomach rolls anyway.
The printer whirs again behind me, louder now, spitting out someone’s pages. A door opens down the hall. Two voices murmur, soft and professional, and I pretend I’m just another person in another office who has never been naked in bed with her boss.
Which is an oversimplification of what happened, really. I add a splash of cream with more care than it deserves because if I spill, I might cry, and I refuse.
I take the first sip too fast and burn my tongue, which feels like some kind of deserved punishment. I wince, swallow anyway, and turn back toward my desk with the mug cradled in both hands as if it can steady me.
The office is still mostly empty, and I wish it weren’t. I wish it were filled with people. More people feel safer.
Halfway there, the elevator dings. The sound is small, ordinary, and it sends a jolt straight through me. My steps slow without permission. I keep my face neutral. I keep walking. And I listen for the rhythm of footsteps that I know too well now, even without seeing him.
My stomach drops. My spine goes rigid. My hands go cold while my body goes hot. My body remembers, and my nipples go tight. I pick up the pace and slip behind my desk just before he rounds the corner.
I keep my eyes on my monitor like it’s a shield. I pretend the numbers on the screen matter. I pretend I’m reading. My cursor blinks in the middle of an empty email draft.
His footsteps stop at my cubicle.
I feel him there before I let myself look. The air shifts. The space tightens. My throat closes like I’m about to swallow something sharp.
“Morning,” he says.
I make myself lift my eyes to the edge of my screen first, then to him. Nico looks the same as he always does—tailored, controlled, not a hair out of place. Like he didn’t spend an entire night turning me inside out.
“Good morning, Mr. Conti,” I manage, not able to make myself say “sir.”
His gaze flicks to the coffee in my hands, then to my face. Just a quick assessment, the kind he does without thinking. “Any fires?” he asks, like this is any other Monday. Like the only thing between us is club schedules and vendor disputes.
“No,” I say. Then I clear my throat and force myself into motion.
“A bar is short two bartenders for Friday. There’s a vendor dispute over a delivery window.
And I printed the security report from last night.
” I tilt my chin toward the stack by the printer, like pointing at paper will keep my hands from shaking.
“Put the security report on my desk once it’s filled out,” he says. “And refer the vendor dispute back to them. That’s an in-house problem, not ours.”
I nod too fast.
He lowers his voice a fraction. “Have you scheduled that procedure for your father?”
I swallow. “They have a couple of tests to do, then they’ll let me know when he’ll go in. But it’ll be within the next week. I’m— I’m going to need some time off.” I suck in a sharp breath. “I know I just started but—”
“Email the dates when you have them,” he says, then turns to walk away.
“Yes, sir,” I say automatically.
Nico pauses for just a fraction at that. I still and hold my breath. But he just continues to his office and shuts the door behind him,
I slump back in my chair, then force myself into motion.
Maddy and I end up in the far back corner of the café, the one half-hidden behind a fake potted tree and a tall divider that makes it feel like our own little booth.
We’re only here because my dad is having tests in the hospital across the street, but it’s surprisingly nice. Warm lights. Small tables. Cinnamon in the air. A case of pastries up front that look pretty.
I chose this corner on purpose.
I don’t want anyone overhearing what I have to say.
Maddy slides into the seat across from me and sets her iced coffee down.
She doesn’t even pretend to ease into it.
“Okay,” she says, voice low, eyes sharp. “Where the hell have you been?”
My stomach tightens.
I wrap both hands around my paper cup, savoring the warmth.
“I’ve been with my dad,” I say. I guess I’m not ready to talk, after all.
“You know what I mean.” She leans in. “Friday night, you ask me to come down here and check in on your dad while you vanish. Saturday morning, you call me, whispering like you’re a spy.
You say you’re safe, and that you’re not alone, and then you hang up on me.
Then you show up with your dad’s deposit handled like you won the lottery. ”
Her mouth twists.
“And you’re acting… weird. You keep checking the door. You flinch when your phone buzzes.”
I stare at the lid of my coffee.
Maddy’s voice drops even more. “Erica. What happened?”
I swallow.
“I’m fine,” I say, because it’s reflex.
Maddy’s eyes go flat. “No, you’re not.”
She taps her straw against her cup. Once. Twice.
“Erica,” she says softly. “Where did you get the money?”
“Remember when you joked that I could sell my virginity for a lot of money?” I ask.
Maddy’s face shifts into an amused expression. “Ha. Ha.”
My throat closes, and I look down.
Complete silence.
Then: “Oh my God.”
I can’t speak.
“Erica,” she whispers in disbelief. “You didn’t.”
I don’t answer.
Silence stretches between us, filled with espresso machine noise and someone laughing too loudly near the windows.
My fingers tighten around the cup.
“He was going to die, Maddy,” I whisper brokenly, tears stinging my eyes.
I lift my wet eyes to hers, begging her to understand.
“I tried everything. Loans. Appeals. Payment plans. I begged. I sat in offices with my folder like a good girl and listened to people tell me my dad’s life doesn’t fit into their rules. I didn’t have a choice.”
Maddy’s hands curl around her cup like she wants to crush it.
“Erica,” she whispers. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because you would’ve stopped me.”
“Damn right I would’ve stopped you!”
Heads turn in the café.
Maddy lowers her voice immediately, but the anger doesn’t go anywhere. It just compresses into something sharp.
“Okay,” she says, breathing. “Okay. Start over. Tell me exactly what happened.”
My pulse pounds in my ears.
I take a shaky breath and force myself to look at her.