7. Ophelia #2
Aunt Viv shrugs her shoulders, finishing sorting paperwork. “I wish I knew. Maybe they were rebuilding back then? It’s hard to know for sure.” She grabs my hand, squeezing, glancing down at my watch. “What time does your lunch break end, dear?”
“1p.m. Why?”
“You have five minutes,” cringes Aunt Viv. “Here,” she says, rushing back over to her desk. “I’ll call a taxi.”
I walk through the lobby out of breath, four whole minutes late.
The taxi arrived seconds later after Aunt Viv booked it for me, reminding me just how much money she has.
Being loaded in a city like New York is one of life’s greatest blessings. Nothing’s impossible. Aunt Viv and Mr. Moretti are evidence that hard work pays off, no matter where you come from.
“Sorry I’m late,” is the first thing I say when I enter the glass meeting room.
All fourteen attendees turn my way, flashing me tense glances as I set up at the table, flicking through pages in my notepad until I reach a clean page.
“You’re over here, Miss Bennett,” says Salvatore, his deep voice booming through the room.
I look up, seeing him pull out the empty chair for me—the one next to him.
I focus on keeping a neutral expression. On the inside, I’m screaming. What the fuck is this bastard playing at, hiding our private affair in plain sight, playing games right under people’s noses? If this is my punishment for being late, he can get fucked. I’d rather have a broken nose.
“Sure,” I squeak, heels clopping as I make my way over in silence, people watching my every move.
We share a look as I sit down next to him, wrapping my fingers around the pen, desperate to make notes so I have something to do with my hands.
Mr. Moretti is meeting with a senior investment banker from Wall Street.
“We have a competitor open to acquisition," begins the man. The crisp white shirt on his back must have taken some serious ironing, seeing as though there’s not a single crease on the shirt.
I remember walking in on Salvatore yesterday, seeing the blood slashed across his shirt. Is making people bleed a normal part of business, a way to keep people in line?
Perhaps I’ve been walking around with rose tinted glasses my entire life, unaware of the unpolished, more grittier sides of this industry.
The Oxford shoes, straight black ties and crisp white shirts allude to professionalism, but human beings are animals at the end of the day, as I now know myself, having experienced a different side to Mr. Moretti on Friday.
Even the most powerful people in society have needs, and I wonder if people like Mr. Moretti are hungry for things far worse than money and sex.
Fifteen minutes later, the meeting is being wrapped up and people start leaving.
“Nice to meet with you, Mr. Moretti,” says the banker, reaching across the table to shake his hand. “I hope to see you at the Stock Exchange two weeks from now.”
“I look forward to it.”
I finish jotting down notes and open the door, seeing suited men out of the office, offering them smiles. Some take the smiles too literally, seeing it as an invitation to ask what I’m doing on the weekend.
“Miss Bennett has lots of work to complete for me this weekend,” intercepts Mr. Moretti, seeing the last gentleman out. “Thank you for attending this meeting…” He shuts the door behind the man, facing me… “On time.”
“Please forgive me, Mr. Moretti.”
“For being four minutes late?” He narrows his eyes at me. “You lost a mark for punctuation for today.”
“I never knew you were counting.”
“Good work, but you’re still my executive assistant.”
“Wait.” I blink, confused. “You think I was deliberately late?”
“What other explanation would there be? You were planning to end your position here.”
“Yes, and you disapproved by soaking the letter in blood,” I say, crossing a line as I challenge authority in a semi-public place.
Speaking out of line is a felony, even when we’re alone.
Surrounded by people walking past, on display to the rest of the building, makes this situation even more tense as Salvatore flashes me a glare, his green eyes coming to life.
“I trust that you’re keeping this unfortunate event to yourself, Miss Bennett, and will continue to do so.”
“I can sign a non-disclosure if that’ll make you feel more comfortable," I say, crossing boundaries yet again by throwing jokes into the conversation.
Mr. Moretti clenches his jaw, taking the non-disclosure joke very seriously. I’m sure this is no laughing matter.
“It’s come to my attention, Miss Bennett, that you’re still here.”
“I’m being courteous and engaging in conversation with my boss.”
“Not that,” he says, watching me intensely. “I’m sure you would have quit by now if you really wanted to.”
“You made a rather interesting point yesterday,” I say, watching him. “You value what I bring to the table.”
“Yes,” Mr. Moretti says. “When I’m not throwing you over the table.”
Shivers rush down my spine, wetness leaking down my thighs. Him talking dirty to me when the entire building can look into this room is risky.
I glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with two female colleagues from the HR department. Both issue me scolding glares as they walk past the glass very slowly.
“You’re letting other people write your story, Miss Bennett.”
“Sometimes, other people’s opinions determine how successful I will be.”
“Yes, I understand, but you don’t help yourself by being so reactive,” he says, flashing me a slanted smile. “Take a deep breath and do something about those cheeks. You are blushing.”
“And you are out of line.”
“Would you rather me be in line?” Mr. Moretti tilts his head, already knowing the answer. “Any more thoughts about our arrangement? Your cheeks tell me you’d like to indulge, Miss Bennett, but I need to hear the words come out of your mouth.”
“Would you like it down in writing, too, sir?” I tease, a smile playing on my lips.
Mr. Moretti smirks, tongue teasing over his lips. “Best not.”
I clench my thighs together, my heart beating out of my chest. People walk past the glass, looking inside, but I tune out all the noise. These walls are soundproof.
What does it matter if I can see the outside world?
Everything else stops existing the second I look into my boss’s eyes, seeing a mischievous smile grow on his face.
Mr. Moretti is the most serious, grouchy guy I know.
He never smiles, never speaks out of term, and yet we’re alone discussing sex, my pussy drenched as we discuss the details of our arrangement.
I enjoy seeing this different side of him.
And I’m going to enjoy getting closer to him as I learn more about the Crows.
Teenage boys shoplift and vandalize for a reason. This goes deeper than being bored during summer vacation, than needing to let off steam. My mother was very calculated, and working as an ER nurse for years exposed her to real, raw humanity.
She warned me about the Crows for a reason, and I bet I’ll understand that reason very soon.