Claimed By the Ruthless King (Ruthless Mafia Daddies #5)

1. Ophelia

OPHELIA

I scribble my signature at the bottom of my resignation letter and fold it into an envelope, running my tongue over the seal. My saliva on an envelope is the only thing Mr. Moretti will get from me as I walk out of his office and his life…

Effective immediately.

I finish drinking my coffee, dunking it in the sink as I prepare for my last day of being Salvatore Moretti’s executive assistant.

Eight months of chasing after my boss, managing his calendar and gawping at his annoyingly beautiful face was fun while it lasted, but I pride myself on keeping my work life professional, never teetering over into that dangerous gray area.

I’m currently in that area, hence why this will be my last day working for Mr. Moretti. The eye contact’s getting way out of hand. His emerald eyes linger, giving me the green light to go ahead and fuck this all up for myself.

Unfortunately, the gender gap is a real thing, especially in the corporate world. Salvatore Moretti can fuck whomever he wants, and nothing sticks. But me? I pull him aside to update him on his schedule, and I’m seen as a whore.

I slip into my high heels, analyzing my outfit in the mirror. According to the HR ladies, pencil skirts and three-quarter-length-sleeve blouses are “inappropriate” for the workplace.

“Something’s definitely blooming between Phee and Salvatore,” I heard one of them say last week when they all piled into the restroom, unaware that I was taking a piss in one of the stalls. “Maybe. She certainly dresses like she wants to bend over his desk.”

Opening the stall and strutting out in my chiffon blouse was incredibly satisfying. Every single one of them went mute.

Sorry I refuse to dim my light and rotate the same three outfits every day.

My mother told me two things before she died, and although she was highly medicated, completely away with the fairies, I carry her words with me like a backpack that never comes off.

“Remember, Phee, the sun keeps shining even when someone gets burned. Always shine bright, and always stay away from the crows.”

The ‘crows’ thing has always made me laugh. She was put on life support in her final few days, hallucinations one of the symptoms, hence the crows, but everything else she said still resonates.

I relay her words to myself now, staring at my reflection in the mirror. Staying true to yourself in an ever-changing city like New York is important.

In this day and age, the most important asset a woman can have is her job, and I will not burn myself.

And in this instance, leaving is the only way I can hold up my impeccably high standards. Self-restraint only goes so far.

I slot the resignation letter into my purse and leave my apartment, entering the busy streets of New York.

Summer in this city is the worst. The slut shaming increases with the temperature as I walk into the office showing more skin than usual.

I clutch my purse, rattling along in the subway for ten minutes before arriving at the Financial District.

Butterflies rouse in my stomach as I cross the road, heading to the office block.

I miss the days when my pulse used to be steady, when I walked into the building tired, my body craving caffeine instead of my boss.

Packing a spare pair of panties in my purse was something I never had to worry about, because I never used to be turned on at work.

I inhale a deep breath, stepping into the reception area.

Mr. Moretti’s building is one of the tallest in the Financial District, soaring high into the air, quite like the owner himself.

The interior is contemporary in design, fit with sleek offices built entirely out of glass. Nothing is kept private. You can walk past offices when meetings are in session at your own leisure. The soundproof walls are fun for employees as they attempt to lip-read, guessing what’s being said.

“They’re talking about Mr. Moretti’s latest conquest,” said my friend Sapphire once when I was giving her a tour around the building.

“That man has enough money.”

“Oh, not money,” said Sapphire, bursting into laughter. “Pussy.”

Naturally.

I cross the lobby, butterflies flapping in my stomach as I overthink Salvatore Moretti’s reaction to me quitting.

I bite my lip, coming to a halt in the middle of the lobby. Familiar faces pass me, some offering me a smile, others blanking me. I’m not here to make friends. Not even acquaintances. I’m here to act professional and pay off the apartment I bought, period.

But before I take another step, I need more coffee.

I slip out of the revolving doors, purse in hand, and charge across the street to the coffee shop.

“Phee,” says Sapphire, greeting me at the counter. “Surprise, surprise.”

“I need a double shot cappuccino, thank you so much,” I say, my card already hovering over the reader.

“I can smell coffee in your breath.”

“Shit, really?” I panic, curling my hands over my mouth, smelling my own breath. “I usually brush my teeth twice in the morning to avoid smelling like a coffee addict.”

Sapphire smirks across the counter, handing me a piece of gum. “Here. The last thing you need is Mr. Moretti smelling your breath as you hand in your resignation.” She narrows her eyes down on me. “You’re still doing that, right?”

“Of course. After two emergency bathroom trips yesterday, I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life.”

Sapphire raises her brows, grimacing. “Maybe you just have a high libido. Repressing the appetite won’t do you any favors, either.”

“Believe me, it does more favors than the alternative.”

“Which is…?”

“Shitting all over my career.”

“Like a woman having sex is such a crime,” says Sapphire, turning around to make coffee. She glances over her shoulder, keeping the conversation flowing. “Salvatore has fucked some of his employees in the past, right?”

“Yeah, in legal and HR,” I grumble. “Being his executive assistant is a completely different story. We work in the same office. I accompany him to meetings. We live on top of each other already.”

“You may as well go the full way,” says Sapphire as she hovers over the espresso machine.

“And reinforce the stereotypes everyone already holds against me?” I fold my arms over my chest. “No way.”

Sapphire seals the lid on the takeaway cup, handing it over. “Double-shot cappuccino, extra hot, so be extra careful.” She regards me across the counter, lines appearing between her brows. “Do you have another job lined up?”

“Not exactly,” I sigh. “Aunt Viv has opportunities at the art gallery, but staring at paintings all day has never been my forte.”

“What is your forte?” teases Sapphire, leaning over the counter. “Salvatore?”

“Saying his first name in isolation is way too informal.”

“And sleeping around with the HR department is formal?” questions Sapphire.

“Double-fucking-standards, I know, but this is his company,” I sigh, taking a sip of coffee.

“I’m one single woman trying to navigate her way out of a quarter-life-crisis.

Mr. Moretti plays unfair, but complaining about the gender gap and feeling sorry for myself won’t drag me out of this situation.

” I curl my hands around the coffee cup, staring at Sapphire, my best friend since freshman year of college. “I’ll figure it out.”

“I’m sure you will. You always do.”

I offer her a smile, take my coffee, and leave.

Mr. Moretti’s glass-tipped building shines in the morning sunlight, turning everything gold. Staring up at the building always causes me to lose balance, making me feel small in comparison.

And maybe what makes it all worse is that Salvatore Moretti owns the rags to riches story so much that he may as well trademark it. He built his investment business from nothing, and turned it into one of the most successful businesses in New York.

I reenter the building, the revolving doors spitting me out into the lobby.

Consulting the time on my watch, I realize I’m supposed to be meeting Mr. Moretti in ten minutes to discuss his schedule for today.

Apparently, he might need to cancel some meetings because something more urgent has come up.

Surprise, surprise.

I spend half of my time rearranging meetings, ensuring nothing clashes in the schedule, because Mr. Moretti always has somewhere more important to be. I never know where he goes or what the business entails, but the jealous side of me will always assume he has a booty call.

I find my way to the correct meeting room, keys jingling on my lanyard as I unlock the door.

This particular glass building overlooks the atrium, making the room very exposed. Mr. Moretti values an open working environment, probably so he can monitor all activity happening inside of his building. The glass offers very little privacy.

All I need right now is a few minutes of privacy before Salvatore Moretti arrives, a few minutes of slumping my shoulders, of bad posture so I can gather my thoughts and buckle up the courage to hand in this resignation, but there’s too many people walking past outside for me to drop my guard and look deflated for even a moment.

The door cracks open several minutes later, the boss himself striding in.

I stare up at Mr. Moretti, his enormous frame engulfing mine, turning everything dark.

“Good morning, Miss Bennett,” he starts, shaking my hand. “Friday has come around in a flash. Any plans for the weekend?”

“Um,” I stutter, losing myself in his perfect face. “No… Not much. You?”

“The weekend is a concept I’ve been struggling to understand for several decades now,” he chuckles, pulling up a seat beside me. “I’m assuming you got my message last night?”

“Yes,” I gulp.

“The 10 a.m. meeting will have to be rearranged. Please see to that.”

“Of course,” I say, grabbing a pen from a purse, freezing when I see the envelope with his name written on it.

“Everything okay, Miss Bennett?” he asks, leaning into my space. The spiced notes of his cologne unfortunately find their way to my nose, his scent washing over me the brazen way it always does.