Chapter 8
VIOLET
The copy machine on the forty-second floor is slower than mine on the eighth, but Gianni needs these documents before his last meeting of the day and I'm not about to ride the elevator all the way down and back up again when I'm already here.
I feed the pages into the tray and wait, watching the green lights sweep back and forth. It's the most mundane thing I've done all day.
After that meeting, I'm in the mood for mundane. My mind is still racing from what I heard in there. That wasn't Russo Industries talk. That was something else.
He wanted me to hear. That was the point of it all. He wanted to bring me into his world. But once you're in a world like that, is there any getting out?
The machine spits out the last page. A ding snaps me back into the moment. I gather up the stack and tap it against the counter, straighten it, and turn around.
Theresa is standing three feet away. She's changed since the meeting.
Fresh lipstick, hair retouched. As if she went back to her office, assessed her reflection, and decided she needed to be more devastating before being seen again.
She's holding a slim leather folder against her chest and looking past me toward Gianni's closed door.
"I need to see Gianni," she says.
"He's getting ready for a meeting," I say. "Pretty sure he doesn't want to be interrupted."
"And you know this?" she asks, raising her eyebrows.
"Well, knowing his schedule is part of my job. And I know he doesn't like walk-ins."
She snorts. "He doesn't like it when just anyone walks in. That doesn't apply to me."
I keep my expression nice and neutral, the kind of face you learn to make when what you want to say doesn't quite match what you should say.
"He's pretty clear about these things, Theresa.
No interruptions. If it's urgent, I can take a look at his schedule and see if there's something open in the morn... "
"You can schedule me?" She lets out a laugh of disbelief, shaking her head like she can't believe what kind of conversation she's having. "Young lady, I'm the Senior Vice President of this company. I don't need an office manager to pencil me in."
She says the words office manager like she's disgusted by the whole idea. I don't know Theresa very well at all, but this little encounter we're having lines up perfectly with my exposure to her so far. Haughty, entitled, with no time for people she's determined are lesser than her.
"And yet, here we are."
Her eyes narrow. For a moment, I see the calculation happening. Whether to push past me, whether to escalate, whether I'm worth the effort.
I hold my ground. I've been holding my ground against people far more dangerous than Theresa Randolph, and she doesn't even know it.
She decides to escalate.
"You know," she says, tilting her head like she's examining something mildly curious. "I've been meaning to ask. What exactly is going on with you and Gianni? What made him decide to bring one of the peons from the eighth floor into a closed-door meeting?"
Actually, a damn good question. But I'm not about to let her see that I'm just as confused about why my boss allowed me a glimpse into a part of his life I'm sure he rarely shows anyone else in the office.
"Nothing is going on with Mr. Russo and me. I'm his office manager. One of them, at least." I clear my throat, straighten my shoulders. "As for why he wanted me in the meeting, you'll have to take that up with him. When he asks me to do something, I do it."
"Right." She looks me up and down. Slowly. The way women like her do when they want you to feel every inch of yourself being measured and judged. "Because I was trying to figure out what he could possibly see in..." she gestures vaguely at me "...this."
I don't flinch. This isn't the first time I've dealt with Mean Girls bullshit; one of the first lessons you learn when you're on the receiving end is that you don't let them see you sweat.
All the same, I feel it. I feel the heat rising in my chest, the old familiar sting of having someone take a direct look at my body and decide it's too much.
"I mean, sweetheart, no offense." She smiles the kind of prim, pleased smile you only see right before an insult.
"But you're not exactly his type. Gianni likes women who take care of themselves.
Women who don't hide behind..." she waves at my glasses, my bangs "...
all of that. You're a little... much. In the wrong places. "
The words land exactly where she wants them to, in the soft, unprotected places I've spent years trying to armor over. I open my mouth to respond, something sharp, something that'll cut, but I don't get the chance.
Because his door opens.
Gianni steps out, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He takes in the scene in about half a second. Theresa's posture, my expression, the distance between us filled with tension. Maybe he even sees the slight hurt on my face, the hurt I'm trying hard to hide.
"What's going on?" His voice is quiet. Dangerously quiet.
Theresa pivots instantly, all warmth and professional polish. "Gianni, I was just coming to discuss the port authority contacts..."
"Don't lie to me. I heard what you were discussing."
The warmth drains from her face. He takes one step closer to her, close enough to be in her personal space.
"If you ever speak to or about her that way again," he says, and his voice carries. Not loud, but clear enough that every person within earshot stills. "You won't have a job to come back to. Are we clear?"
The silence that follows is deadly. I can feel people watching from their desks, frozen mid-keystroke, mid-conversation. Theresa's mouth opens and then closes. For the first time since I've known her, she doesn't have a word to say. The woman is completely dumbstruck.
"Crystal," she manages.
"Good. Then we're done here." He doesn't even look at her as she turns and walks away. Her heels are quieter now, the sharp confidence knocked out of her stride.
He looks at me. "I'm done for the day," he says. "We're going out."
"We... right now?"
"Get your coat." It's not a suggestion or an ask.
"Don't you have a meeting?"
He looks at me but doesn't say anything. A small smirk forms on his lips that suggests he thinks it's a little funny, a little charming, even, that a man like him would have to do something he didn't want to do.
"Your coat."
We walk out together, and every eye in the office follows us to the elevator.