Chapter 8
Raven
When I sashay through Holston PR’s glass doors, I feel rejuvenated and ready to get back to putting out online fires.
I came back to Cleveland on Saturday, two days ago, and spent all of yesterday getting my ducks in a row. I cleaned and made mental lists about the things I need to discuss with Holston about the event that now feels like it was ages ago.
It wasn’t. In reality, it’s only been ten days. Then again, I suppose that is an eternity in the world of PR.
The usual Monday buzz surrounds me. Phones ring, keyboards click, and the coffee machine hisses like it’s personally offended. Down, boy. Everything feels normal.
Which is exactly what I need right now, what with the whole nearly getting murdered thing I’m still not thinking about. At all. Look at me, compartmentalizing like a boss.
“Morning, Raven,” chirps the receptionist as I pass. I flash her my thousand-watt smile, the one that says I’m totally fine.
“Morning, sunshine. Looking fabulous today.” I throw her two finger guns and toss my hair over my shoulder, channeling my inner Disney princess, the kind that’s too stupid to be traumatized.
When someone bumps into me, my mind flickers. Hands on my throat, brick against my back, Matteo appearing like some avenging demon with a knife… nope.
Mental pin right there. Not today, Satan.
I strut down the hallway, heels clicking against the floor, nodding at colleagues who are still buzzing about the event. Huh, I would have thought that buzz had died down by now.
My desk is exactly as I left it; a place where organized chaos reigns supreme and I’m the monarch in charge. I toss my bag down and immediately check my phone.
There’s a text waiting from Leo who still doesn’t know the point of knock-knock jokes.
Bad twin: Knock, knock… what did the pineapple say to the frog?
I send back a text sleeve of middle fingers. Then I think better of it and send a second text.
Me: That made no sense. You’re lucky you’re pretty.
Bad twin: You mean we’re lucky we’re pretty.
The morning passes in a blur of emails, calls, and me aggressively not thinking about… things. Yep, I’m completely thoughtless and happy.
Mental pin: Do not question my happiness.
I’m good at this part, the work part. It’s like slipping into a perfectly tailored dress where everything fits and nothing pinches. PR is just manipulation dressed up as communication. It’s a fascinating balance that I’m addicted to.
There are still ten emails left for me to answer, all of which are from North Coast Effects. I quickly skim their website before replying, letting them know I’d be happy to set up a meeting this week.
“There you are.” Sue from accounting beams as she walks by my desk. “I wanted to congratulate you on the event, Raven. It was all everyone could talk about last week. Even us number people love you because of the way you cut through margins and still came out winning.”
Mental pin: The image of Matteo’s knife. Ugh, pin that shit harder.
“Raven,” my boss’ assistant calls across the office just as the lunch hour hits. “Everyone’s gathering on the main floor. Holston wants you there.”
I swallow hard, smoothing nonexistent wrinkles from my bright red dress. “Am I in trouble? Did someone die at the hotel and I missed the memo?”
She laughs like I’m joking. I laugh too, even though it wasn’t actually a joke. Corpses have a way of ruining quarterly projections.
The main floor is our showpiece—all glass and chrome and strategic lighting designed to make clients feel both impressed and slightly insecure. It’s where we bring the big fish, the ones worth wining and dining.
When I walk in, the room erupts in applause.
Holston stands at the center, offering a measured smile and a few deliberate claps, his silver hair perfectly in place as always. Behind him, the PR team forms a semicircle, grinning like they’ve just been promised bonuses.
“There she is,” Holston says, his voice carrying over the applause—measured, but full of pride. Maybe a touch too loud, like a man trying to project confidence in front of the wrong audience. “The woman who kept the Parkview account and managed to land us three new clients in one night.”
More applause. More cheering.
“Take a bow, Raven,” Holston urges with a small chuckle, clearly enjoying the show but trying not to overplay it.
I curtsy theatrically, which makes everyone laugh. When I straighten, I shoot finger guns at Holston. “Just doing what I do best. Acquiring the right contacts in all the right places.”
“And what places they were,” he says with a restrained chuckle. “The Henderson Group’s already requesting proposals, and they’ve never so much as taken a meeting with us before. Whatever you said to their CEO clearly made an impression.”
“She worked the room like a professional thief,” one of the senior account managers adds, raising a coffee mug in toast. “In and out before anyone realized they’d been charmed.”
My smile freezes for a millisecond. Thief. The silver lighter… even though it’s tucked away at home, I swear I can feel the metal heating my palm.
Mental fucking pin.
“To Raven Carter,” Holston says, lifting his coffee mug in salute.
The team choruses their agreement, and I let myself bask in it.
As the impromptu celebration winds down and people begin drifting back to their desks or out to lunch, Holston approaches me, his expression shifting from proud to something more serious.
“Brilliant work, truly,” he says, voice lower now. “I mean that. But I need you for something else. A potential new client wants to meet with you.”
I smooth my dress again, a nervous tic I can’t quite control. “Of course. Now?”
“Now,” he confirms. “He’s already waiting in my office.”
As we walk through the modern office space, I mentally review potential clients. The glass walls and sleek furnishings blur past as I concentrate.
“Anyone I might know?” I ask, keeping my voice light, professional.
Holston hesitates, just for a fraction of a second. But it’s long enough to feel like he’s considering his options. As though he isn’t sure this is a good idea.
“Doesn’t matter,” I chirp. “You know I’m happy to help.” There’s no way I’m backing down from a potential challenging account. Nope. I thrive on that shit.
He nods slowly. “Glad to hear it, Raven.” He swipes his forehead with the back of his hand and I do my best not to grimace. “I’m not sure if you two were introduced or not,” he continues, placing his hand on the door handle.
I resist the urge to tell him he’d know if he’d attended his own event. But instead of mouthing off, I straighten my shoulders and walk inside after he opens the door.
Holston’s private office has never felt smaller. Maybe it’s the way the light cuts through the blinds, slicing the space into sharp strips of light and shadow. Maybe it’s the expensive leather chairs arranged in a perfect circle like some corporate ritual.
Or maybe, just fucking maybe, it’s the man sitting in one of those chairs, his scarred face turning to me the instant I step inside.
Matteo. Here. In my workplace. My feet stop working and my brain short-circuits as the room tilts slightly.
Mental pin: The urge to bolt like a frightened rabbit. I’m prey, hear me shiver.
The thought hits me so fast I almost snort out loud. Luckily, I manage to lock it down, and mentally tell the snarky bitch in my brain to shut the hell up and let me at least pretend to be a badass.
“Raven,” Holston says, gesturing to the empty chair across from Matteo. His smile is perfectly cordial, though a hint of tension flickers behind it. “Our newest client has requested an arrangement with you.”
I force my lips into what I hope resembles a smile and not a grimace. “We’ve met, actually.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. Gold star for me.
“At the Parkview,” Matteo supplies, his deep voice sending unwanted shivers across my skin. He doesn’t stand, doesn’t offer his hand. Just sits there, power personified, watching me with those unnervingly focused eyes.
“Excellent,” Holston says, clapping his hands once.
I sink into the chair, crossing my legs and straightening my spine like I’m not sitting across from a man who killed people right in front of me mere days ago. A man who fucked me senseless before that.
A man whose lighter is currently nestled in my trophy box at home like a ticking bomb.
“Mr. Russo is interested in PR representation,” Holston explains, settling behind his desk.
Russo. His last name is Russo. The name tugs at something in my memory, something important, something dangerous.
Mental pin: Figure that out later.
“I’ve been impressed with Holston’s work for some time,” Matteo says smoothly, his eyes never leaving my face. “But it was your performance the night of the event that convinced me. You have quite a talent for… acquisition.”
I laugh nervously. “Umm… thank you?” God, I hate how it comes out as a question.
“And collecting the right things.” His mouth curves into a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve heard you’re particularly drawn to shiny things, like your namesake.”
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I manage, reaching for the water glass on the table. My hand trembles slightly, a microscopic betrayal.
“Ravens are known for their collecting habits,” Matteo continues, addressing Holston now. “They’re drawn to bright objects. They take what fascinates them without understanding the value.”
Holston laughs. “Raven certainly collects valuable contacts. Her network is extraordinary for someone who’s only been with us a few months.”
Sweat beads on my forehead, and I feel it down my spine as well. The room feels warmer suddenly, the air thicker. And with each sound of the pen Matteo’s tapping against the table, it becomes harder to breathe.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
A metronome marking time until… what?
“Raven has an exceptional record with client retention,” Holston continues smoothly, unaware—or pretending not to notice—the tension in the room. “Her strategies for brand protection are sound. She’ll keep your public image exactly where you want it.”
“I’m counting on that,” Matteo agrees, his voice dropping lower. “I value loyalty and discretion above all else.”
The room narrows, tunneling until all I can see is his face, the scars that map one side like a testament to survival. The sounds around me become muffled, like I’m underwater.
My mental pins begin to unravel, each one painfully slow.
“I’ll need complete access,” Matteo continues. “To your schedule. Your methods. Everything.”
The words echo in my head, taking on new meaning. He wants to own me. To possess me. To punish me.
“Of course,” Holston nods enthusiastically. “Raven will be happy to handle everything personally.”
“Perfect.” Matteo’s smile widens, predatory. “People who take things that don’t belong to them often find themselves in… compromising positions. I prefer to avoid such unpleasantness.”
My skin goes clammy, cold sweat breaking out across my back. The memory of those men in the courtyard flashes through my mind—hands at my throat, panic clawing through me, then Matteo appearing like vengeance personified.
Did he send them? Is this all some elaborate game?
I stand abruptly, the chair toppling over behind me.
“Raven?” Holston looks startled.
“Bathroom,” I manage to croak. “Sorry. Women’s issues. You know how it is. My period is all whacky, and I…” I force a brittle laugh that mercifully ends my mortifying babbling.
Matteo just watches, something like satisfaction flickering across his face. “Take your time,” he says softly. “I’m a patient man.”
Patient. Like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
“I’ll be right back.”
My walk is brisk as I leave the room and head straight to my desk. Someone calls my name but I ignore them. My purse is where I left it, tucked in the bottom drawer. With it in hand, I rush over to the elevator.
“Raven?” Another voice. Concerned. “Are you okay?”
I’m not okay. Nothing about this is okay.
As soon as I’m inside the elevator, I punch the lobby button repeatedly like it’ll make the descent faster. The professional mask crumbles as soon as the doors close. My breath comes in short, sharp gasps. My legs tremble so badly I have to lean against the wall.
He found me. At my job of all places. Okay, that shouldn’t surprise me considering where we met. And I guess it doesn’t. But having him show up here, and so blatantly accusing me of theft. It’s… offensive.
Yes, I did technically steal from him. But that doesn’t mean he gets to call me out in front of my boss. That’s a line that shouldn’t be crossed.
I jump when my phone starts ringing, Piper’s face flashing across the screen. But it’s not her face I’m frowning at. It’s her initials. PR. I changed her contact name after she got married to Lorenzo Russo.
Shit…
My friend confessed her husband’s family is… what’s the correct term? Mafia? Mobsters? Crime lords. Oh, who fucking cares. This is bad. No, beyond bad. Worse.
The elevator reaches the lobby, and I stumble out, my normally confident stride uneven and hurried. The security guard gives me a concerned look, but I push past without explanation.
Outside, the Cleveland air hits my face, a shock of reality. I keep walking, directionless, just putting distance between me and the building. Between him and me.
I don’t cope with trauma or problems—I run from them. Pin it away for later. But there aren’t enough mental pins in the world to hold down what just happened. What’s still happening.
Matteo has found me. And… he’s a Russo.
I fucking stole from the Mafia.
Fuck.