Chapter 1
The tightness of my tie pushed up around the collar of my shirt was a sensory nightmare.
I had to wear it for professionalism, or whatever, the internet had told me.
I didn’t know how to function in the real adult world without several internet searches just to make sure of things—sometimes it made me feel like an alien walking around in a human skin.
Walking through the glass doors of Bianchi Construction Services into a small empty lobby, I tugged the tie a little, hoping to loosen it but nearly strangling myself instead, my messenger bag—a.k.a. my informal briefcase—swinging from my shoulder with the big steps I took.
At the reception desk stood a woman with fancy rimmed glasses and bold red lips. “Hi, welcome to Bianchi Construction Services. Do you have an appointment?” she asked, but my eyes were watching the gum she was chewing. “Hon?”
“Hi,” I said, my body freezing as the warm sweat that had soaked my shirt turned cold against my skin. “I’m here for the assistant interview, for the—” I pulled my messenger bag around, almost knocking the bowl of blue glass pebbles from the desk. “It’s the—I’ve got a letter here.”
She smiled at me. “This is the job for the owner, my cousin, Santo Bianchi,” she said. “Executive assistant? You have prior experience?”
I nodded then shrugged; the job title was something along those lines.
“Yeah,” I said. “Oh, and no, I . . . well, I’m fresh out of college.
Please don’t . . . I’ve been job hunting for months.
” And my entire life was currently depending on maxed-out credit cards with an interest rate I blamed on my mom for fucking up my credit score.
She chuckled. “Oh, doll. That’s no problem. I was just gonna say, make sure to get in all the experience possible while you’re here,” she said. “My cousin has a bit of a habit with assistant turnover. He can be intense.”
At this point, I didn’t care. She could’ve told me I’d have to walk over hot coals every day, and I’d still take the job offered to me. I couldn’t help but grin. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be sure to get the experience.”
She pulled out a folder. “You’ll also be required to sign an NDA,” she said. “I’ll call my cousin down now.”
“It’s just an interview, though, isn’t it?”
She laughed. “Oh no, he’s going to hire you,” she said. “You’re . . .” After a pause where her eyes traced me up and down, she nodded. “His type . . . of assistant. You’re going to do great, I promise. Oh, I’m sorry, what’s your name?”
Glancing at the file and hearing her question, I needed to take a breath to center myself. There was no going back. I knew that. I needed the money, because without it I’d lose my apartment and the home for my babies—my plush teddy collection. “Isaiah King,” I said.
“I’m Camille Bianchi,” she said, sitting and picking up the phone.
Time went by in a blink.
A tall man appeared, with dark brown eyes, buff, with his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar, no tie, and the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, his muscled arms bulging out.
He seemed to follow my gaze as my eyes traveled the length of his body, stopping, naturally, around the midway point.
It was a habit formed out of being so sex deprived. Another bulge—or fabric ruching.
He said my name and smiled with only his lips—his eyes didn’t smile, though, they were haunting. “You’ve got the job,” he said, extending a hand and shaking mine with a hard grip like his skin was made of warm stone.
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you. I . . . um. Don’t you want to see my things?”
He shook his head. “No, no, but I do want you to come with me to my office,” he said, letting go of my hands.
I glanced back to Camille and she smiled properly. “If you have any issues, come to me,” she said. “I’m somewhat the unofficial HR department.”
Santo laughed, then his tone turned serious and he looked at his wristwatch—it was some fancy thing. “Oh. You’re actually late, Isaiah.”
“I’m on—I’m on time, I think.”
“You think?” he asked, eyes turning to a squint as he stared at me. “I’ll let it slide for your first day, but don’t do it again.”
Camille scoffed. “Be nice to the kid,” she said. “He thought he was coming in for an interview.”
“I won’t be late be again,” I said, with a slight head bow. “I promise.” I needed this job, and I didn’t care for the quirks of my boss. I would adapt and adjust to them.
Now he smiled, a real one. I was bad at knowing what people’s intentions were, so I observed heavily, and hoped to discern his from a look. Santo was hard to read—cold then warm—he was like a faulty faucet. Camille, on the other hand, was nice. I think.
“Okay, okay, come on,” he said, snapping his fingers. “Let’s go.”
We marched to the elevator where we stood together for a moment. He was staring at the morphed reflection of me in the metal doors. I stood straighter, my body aching as I tried not to move while he was examining me.
“Is everything okay?” I let out.
He turned to me, smirking. “You beat a whole lot of other applicants,” he said, nodding his head. “You know what we do here?”
“You’re a construction company,” I said. It was the most obvious and straightforward answer, rather than repeating the rumors and such I’d heard. “You make buildings and stuff like that.”
Santo nodded, taking his bottom lip into his mouth and biting. The elevator began to open, taking a surprising long time to do so. I’d been staring at his lip the entire time, seeing the teeth marks left behind on it.
“After you,” he said.
The interior was all mirrored. I could see him wherever I looked, and he could see me—or worse yet, I could see myself, and I’d sweated through my clothes so heavily, I was glad there was the threat of rain out to blame it on.
“Your work is going to be hands on,” Santo said, and as the doors opened fully onto a hallway, he placed his hand on my back and guided me out. He kept it there. “You’ll be working in my office with me . . . closely. I need complete trust, and I need you to blend in with the furniture.”
“Okay,” I let out after a gulp. “I can do that.”
“Good b—” He pulled his hand away. “That’s good.”
He led me down the hallway to a room at the end. We’d walked by so many empty conference rooms—all with windows looking right out over the city in both directions. Maybe the rumors were true and this was a shell for laundering.
A large office emerged behind a door. The walls were lined with wooden shelves covered in books, trophies, and bottles of brown liquid that blended into the shelves with their ornate designs—they had to be expensive.
Green-leather armchairs were arranged around a coffee table.
There was a sofa by the shelves, and by the window, the desk, looking over it all—and the harbor city view behind it.
“You won’t have a desk,” he informed me. “You’ll work where and when I tell you. Understood?”
I nodded.
“I need you to tell me that you’ve understood,” he said. “Verbally.” He placed his hand at my chin, and I leaned into it. “That means opening your mouth.”
“Yes,” I said. “I understand.”
“Good, good.” He removed his hand and snapped his fingers at the sofa. “You can sit there for now. Don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you.”
“Understood,” I said as a new reflex.
He smiled. “You’re getting it.”
I sat on the hard green-leather sofa, my hands on my lap and my messenger bag upright beside me, scared it would fall over and everything inside it would fall out.
I stayed quiet, and I tried not to look at anything for too long, but it was impossible.
My eyes needed some stimulus, especially right now while it felt like I was being tested.
I needed this job despite all the tests. I would pass them. I had to pass them.
“You’re gonna be in charge of organizing invoices,” he eventually said. “Sit over there.” He directed me with just a glance to the coffee table. “I read your resume. You went to college for business administration.”
I nodded, perking up as I stood, and as I did, the contents of my bag spilled. Like the nightmare I’d imagined, my sweet small plush panda, Pud, fell out and rolled right over to Santo’s desk. “I’m sorry,” I whispered.
He smirked. “I hope that’s not some secret listening device,” he said, dipping into a squat almost to grab it. He squeezed it to within an inch of its plush life. “Mhm, you know, in this line of work—construction work—it’s important we don’t let our competitors know what we’re quoting.”
I nodded. “I’m really sorry. It’s um—it’s my good luck charm.”
Santo stared at Pud, looking into his black stud eyes. “What has it helped you with?”
“Getting this job,” I said with a shrug. “It also helped me with some of my exams. I mean, I graduated, so that’s a start.” I snorted a laugh, then quieted myself, seeing he wasn’t laughing with me. “I’m sorry, again. I really didn’t think this was all going to happen so soon.”
He placed it on his desk, right by the closest of all three monitors. “I guess I’ll have to see if this luck transfers,” he said. “Now, I have a job for you.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. It came naturally. I wanted him to know I meant business when it came to this job.
I didn’t want him to think I was going to be one of the high turnover employees I’d heard about, even before Camille told me.
I knew this was a demanding gig, and that’s why the pay was higher than a lot of other jobs in the same business admin assistant role.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” he said, grabbing a stack of papers from his desk. “Organize these invoices by date. Cross-reference with the payment schedules. I want them done quickly. If you can’t manage it, please let me know. I’m not here to waste time.”
“Of course, sir,” I continued. “I’m not going to let you down.”
I knew what this job was, and I was going to do it to the best of my ability. I looked at Pud on his desk as I sat in one of the equally hard armchairs with the messy stack of paperwork on the glass table in front of me.
“After that, I need a coffee,” he said. “So, quick.” He snapped his fingers and I—almost in a trance—went to work on the papers.
I noticed an odd pattern almost immediately.
All the invoices were for large amounts.
They were all made out to different items—fancy marbles, stone, woods—I knew those types of things existed, but according to the transaction sheets I was matching them to, those charges were inflated by a lot.
After stapling all the matching documents together, I finally realized the rumors were true.
This place . . . it was something darker.
It was a place I was going to need all my teddies around me to survive.
Santo came over to me, Pud in hand. He placed him on the glass table and looked me over again. “Good work,” he said. “You look like you found something interesting.”
“I was just—”
He gestured with a finger in the air. “You’ll understand eventually. Don’t ask questions you’re not ready for.”
“Okay,” I let out softly, a whimper.
“Stand,” he said, and I watched as he smirked at me when I did. “You can’t wear this.” He placed a hand on my shirt. “It’s ill-fitting. And it washes you out. What are you? Hispanic?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir. But I—”
Santo snapped his fingers again. “Spit it out.”
“My father’s from Mexico, but I’ve only met him once or twice. I—I can speak a little Spanish, but I think I refused to learn because of how much I hated him. My mom is American, white, Irish I think. Maybe Scottish.”
There was a visceral reaction to that as his lips grew taut to reveal his teeth. “Irish,” he grumbled. “I hope for your safety, you’re not part of the Morrell family.”
Immediately, I shook my head. “No, I—I don’t even know who that is.”
He laughed and lifted hand to my face, then he rubbed my cheek and gave it a light pat.
“Good,” he said. “They’re a rival company, so it’s best to avoid them where possible.
Alongside the Cordello family. Now, your clothes.
” His hand stroked down my neck, reaching my shoulder where he plucked at the shirt.
“It’s practically drowning you. No, I can’t have that.
You’re probably a small; I’ll get you something. ”
“Okay,” I said, trying my best to always respond to him. “You don’t have to get me anything. I’ll buy a new shirt. I promise.”
Leaving my side, he walked to a shelf and opened it with a push, and it swiveled to reveal a closet full of shirts. Santo was there for minutes, flicking through the shirts until he came back to me with a deep blue one. It smelled sweet. “There,” he said. “Change.”
“Is there a—”
“Change,” he said.
“Where?”
He shook his head and tutted, his fingers resting in his eye sockets. “Maybe this isn’t for you,” he said.
“The shirt is—”
“No,” he said, his voice louder, more gravel behind it. “This. Maybe this isn’t for you. I need someone who’ll do as I say. I don’t need someone who asks me questions with every instruction.”
As I stared at him, light came in from behind, almost giving him a glow. I just nodded, slowly, maintaining eye contact even with the light forcing me to strain. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I need this job. I’ll change. Right now. I’ll—”
He snapped his fingers. “Then get to it. I need action. Do it.”
I zipped right out of my shirt, my fingers moving at the speed of light. I could’ve torn through it. I wore the tighter shirt, a nice blue—dry too, which was a relief.
Afterwards, Santo looked me up and down again. “Perfect,” he let out. “What did I tell you to do next?”
“Coffee,” I said with a firm nod. “What’s your coffee order?”
He smirked. “Black. There’s a machine on the third floor where the kitchen is. You’ve got five minutes. I’ll time you.”
I didn’t know what it was about him, but I’d follow anything this man told me. Even make him coffee in what felt like an impossible time limit.