Julia
Chapter One
Mario’s office has a rhythm.
I learned it by the end of the third day.
The elevators open. Someone lowers his voice. The receptionist calls back only when she has to.
Men in expensive suits come in believing they are here for a meeting with a businessman, then sit straighter the moment they realize that ‘businessman’ doesn’t quite cover it. Mario’s name carries a lot more weight once you come face-to-face with the man.
By the end of the first week, I know which calls go through, which ones get held, which names make Benjamin from Legal appear from behind the frosted glass with a folder in his hand, and which ones make Mario go very still before he says, “Put him through.”
By the end of the second week, I know there are meetings I am not meant to ask about.
This is one of them.
The investor arrives at 9:58 in a navy suit, polished shoes, and the kind of smile men practice before stepping into rooms where money is discussed.
His name is Malcolm Reeves. He is new to me, but not to Mario. Mario comes out of his office to greet him personally, which tells me enough. They shake hands. Mario gives him that calm, unreadable smile of his, and then the two of them disappear behind the closed office door.
No interruptions.
That is what Mario says before he goes in.
So I do not interrupt.
I answer three calls. I reschedule one lunch. I send two documents to Lorenzo’s office. I confirm a vendor meeting for next Thursday and, as usual, pretend not to notice Mario’s private security lingering near the elevator.
Another thing I’m not supposed to ask about.
Then, at 10:23, the elevator opens again.
I look up automatically.
And forget, for one ridiculous second, how to breathe.
Ricardo Conti steps out.
I know him. Technically. I knew him back when I was running wild in college with Dante back in Naples.
These days, I mostly just know his name. I know his place in the family. I know he is Mario’s brother, the second-oldest, the one people describe with careful words that mean more than they say. Dealmaker. Diplomat. Negotiator. The charming one.
Charming is not the same thing as harmless.
I have seen him from a distance more than once since starting here.
This is the first time he has walked directly toward my desk since the day Mario interviewed me.
He wears a charcoal suit that fits him as if someone built it around him. White shirt. No tie. The top button open, with just enough carelessness to make it clear the carelessness is deliberate.
His hair is dark, threaded heavily with silver at the temples. Not enough to age him into softness. Enough to make him look settled in himself and comfortable in his own skin. Like a man who has lived long enough to know exactly what he is doing and never needs to rush.
His eyes find mine.
Green, I thought at first.
But no. They’re darker than that. Hazel, maybe, touched with gold under the office lights.
“Miss O’Brien,” he says.
His accent changes my name.
That old-world Italian warmth in his voice makes something in my stomach react.
I stand.
“Mr. Conti.”
His mouth moves into a smile.
“Ricardo,” he says smoothly.
In that voice, it sounds less like a correction and more like an invitation.
I keep my face composed. “Ricardo.”
There. Professional. Normal. Two syllables, not a confession of exactly what that voice does to me inside.
He stops in front of my desk and glances once toward Mario’s closed office door. “My brother is in a meeting?”
“Yes. A closed-door meeting.”
“With Reeves.”
I hesitate for half a second. Not because I think the information is secret from him. Mostly because I am still figuring out which Conti knows what before I say anything.
Ricardo catches the hesitation.
His mouth curves a little more.
“Yes,” I say. “With Mr. Reeves.”
“And how long has he been in there?”
“About twenty-five minutes.”
Ricardo looks at the door again, as if he can see through the wood and glass and Mario’s patience. “I will wait.”
“Of course.”
He takes the chair opposite my desk.
“Can I get you coffee?” I ask before sitting down.
“No, thank you.”
“Water?”
“No.”
I nod, sit back down, and return to the email on my screen. “Mario should be at least twenty minutes.”
A pause.
Then Ricardo says, “In that case, perhaps I will take that coffee.”
I look up.
His eyes are on me, amused, apologetic.
“Cream or sugar?”
“Black.”
Of course.
I stand and reach for the small tray on the sideboard. Mario’s office coffee is better than most office coffee because Mario Conti does not appear to believe in mediocrity. There is an espresso machine as well, but I have not quite mastered it, so I tend to err on the side of caution.
“Regular coffee?” I ask, hopeful.
“That is fine.”
“You sound unconvinced.”
“I am deciding whether to be offended that you think I drink regular coffee.”
I glance back at him, sheepish. “Truth is, I have not mastered the espresso machine, so I was simply being hopeful.”
That smile deepens.
I go a little weak in the knees.
“Regular coffee is fine.”
I turn away before he can see the way I react.
There is no reason for my pulse to be doing anything interesting. He is Mario’s brother. He is Dante’s father. He is not here for me. He is a man waiting for another man in an office where I work, and the only thing required of me is coffee and basic competence.
Still, I feel the weight of his attention on my back while I pour.
I am too aware of my own movements. The angle of the pot. The sleeve of my blouse sliding a little when I reach for the cup. The fact that I wore my hair down today because I was running late and did not feel like pinning it as I had planned. It seemed more office-appropriate.
Appropriate.
I almost laugh.
For nearly three years, my life revolved around being appropriate.
The appropriate fiancée. The appropriate daughter. The appropriate woman at the appropriate fundraisers, smiling in the appropriate photos beside a man who knew exactly where to place his hand on the small of my back so no one else saw the pressure in it.
No.
Not here.
I pour the coffee, place it on the saucer, and carry it to Ricardo.
He takes it from me.
Our fingers do not touch.
Somehow, that feels more deliberate than if they had.
“Thank you,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
I sit again and turn back to my computer.
There are three messages waiting. One from accounting. One from Lorenzo’s assistant. One from a board member of a charitable foundation I used to work with, who has apparently decided my new job makes me a useful path to Mario.
I delete that one without answering and continue my work.
After a while, Ricardo’s voice caresses my spine, and I try not to shiver.
“You are very efficient.”
“I try to be.”
“No.” He takes a sip of coffee. “That is not what I said.”
I glance at him.
He is watching me over the rim of the cup, relaxed in the chair, one ankle crossed over his knee. He looks too elegant for an ordinary workday. Too composed. Too aware of himself and everyone else.
“You said I’m efficient,” I say.
“I said you are very efficient. There is a difference.”
“With Mario, I’m learning there’s a difference between every word.”
Another smile that weakens me.
What is wrong with me?
“Yes,” he says. “There is.”
I return to the email from accounting and type a reply. I can feel him watching, not in a crude way. Not openly enough for me to object. More like he is letting the silence do part of the conversation for him.
I should hate it, the silence between us.
I really do not.
That might become a problem.
“So,” he says after a minute. “Two weeks.”
I keep typing. “Two weeks.”
“Has Mario made you regret taking the job yet?”
My fingers still on the keyboard.
The smart answer is no. The polished answer is something about the work being challenging and rewarding. The answer I would have given in Connecticut is a pretty, useless sentence wrapped around nothing honest. Something diplomatic and political.
But Ricardo’s eyes are on me, and something about the amusement in them makes me reckless.
“Mario is easier than charity boards.”
His eyebrows rise. “Is he?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
I send the email before I answer. Then I look at him.
“Because at least he doesn’t pretend he’s not terrifying.”
For one suspended second, there is nothing.
Then Ricardo laughs.
Not a polite laugh. Not the soft exhale wealthy men give when they want women to feel clever.
This is a real laugh that comes from his chest, surprised out of him, and it changes the atmosphere between us so quickly that I don’t have time to guard myself against it.
His face opens. Not enough that anyone else might call it vulnerable. But enough that the polished danger slips, and beneath it, there is warmth. A flash of something alive and almost boyish, made sharper by the silver at his temples and the lines at the corners of his eyes.
Oh. I like that.
I like making him laugh.
The realization is very, very dangerous.
His laughter fades, but the smile remains. “You have known my brother for two weeks and already understand him better than men who have worked beside him for years.”
“I doubt that.”
“You should not.”
“I also didn’t say I understand him. I said he’s terrifying.”
“And that does not frighten you?”
“I would be stupid if it didn’t.”
“Yet you are here.”
“I’ve worked with donors who smiled while destroying entire programs because a seating chart offended them,” I say. “Mario is direct. That is refreshing.”
Ricardo’s gaze sharpens.
“You find him refreshing.”
“In a certain sense.”
“What sense?”
“The sense in that if he is displeased, I know it immediately.”
“And you prefer that?”
I look back at my screen, but I am not reading anymore. “I prefer knowing where the knife is before it's in my back.”
The words leave my mouth before I can soften them.
Silence follows.
This one is different.
I keep my eyes on the screen. Heat crawls up the back of my neck, but I do not apologize.