10. Ophelia
OPHELIA
“Something the matter, Miss Bennett?” he says, rising from his desk to greet me.
“No, nothing,” I squeak, pulling up a chair at his desk, rifling through notes. “You have a meeting at the stock exchange in half an hour,” I remind him, scanning my notes for further details. “The meeting should be forty-five minutes long. Refreshments provided.”
“Are you provided?” he teases, glancing over the rim of his coffee cup.
“Uh, no, sir, I’m staying here.”
“I would like you to accompany me.”
I hesitate, glancing over my shoulder, registering the missing document. “I have a busy schedule today myself, sir. I should stay here and make sure things are up to date. Your meeting planners don’t write themselves.”
“Very well,” he says, finishing the rest of his coffee and grabbing his suit jacket, the one slung over the back of his chair. He steps away from the desk, pausing in the middle of the room to take in my form. “That black dress looks exceptional on you, Miss Bennett.”
One compliment and I already feel my cheeks flushing red. Damn him.
“Thanks, sir,” I mutter sheepishly, glancing at the floor.
Mr. Moretti strides toward me, hooking his finger under my chin, forcing me to look into his eyes. “Remember what I said about those cheeks, sweet dear. Control yourself. Deep breaths.”
Controlling myself is hard when all I can think about is the way he trained my breathing yesterday with those expert fingers, pumping them in and out, in and—
“How is my afternoon looking, Miss Bennett? Can I cram in some alone time with you? I would quite like to fuck you in this little black dress.”
“Um,” I stutter, hands fumbling over the pages in my notebook as I consult my notes. “2 p.m. could work, but only for twenty minutes.”
“Brilliant. We’ll lock in for 2 p.m.”
“Like I said, you only have twenty minutes to—”
“I can make you come in two,” says Mr. Moretti, his Oxford shoes clacking against the laminate flooring as he heads out, briefcase in hand, tie straighter than my vision as I picture myself bent over his desk—my favorite place to take a seat in this place.
“Make sure you come wearing the same pair of panties, Miss Bennett. I like it when you’re dirty,” he says, opening the door. “Goodbye.”
My heart rattles as the door closes. Everything’s distorted. I see two of everything. Two reflections in the glass as I peer through the window, two Statue of Liberties. Turning around, I hope to find two documents in the cabinet, but my luck has run out.
Ignoring the impossible desire forming in my belly, I use my time wisely and get to work, searching through desk drawers, looking high and low for that goddamn document.
I’m not going crazy. I know what I read yesterday afternoon. The zip code linking to that Queens self-storage complex has to lead me somewhere.
I scratch my head after ten minutes of nothing, deciding I need coffee and some support from Sapphire.
Perhaps I should tell her about the Crows, to have someone other than my aunt to talk to about this.
Viv is mellow, away with the fairies most of the time.
The sun could be falling from the sky, and she would still find a way to speak positively about the end of mankind.
Her positivity about the Crows being ‘no big deal’ is not helping right now.
I lock up the office and slide into the elevator, my heels clopping on the polished marble floor as I leave the building.
The summer heat whacks me in the face the second I step outside. Fanning my face, I cross the street and pile straight into the coffee shop, joining the line.
“I swear you know my schedule better than I do,” teases Sapphire when I get to the front. “How did you know I was working?”
“I do write schedules for a living,” I say. “And I do come to this place almost every day.”
“Bad timing,” says Sapphire. “You caught the morning rush.” After muttering something to her co-worker, she unties the apron and steps aside, gesturing for me to take a seat.
“And just like that you’re relieved of your coffee-making duties.”
“Angela owes me some hours,” says Sapphire, pulling up a chair at one of the tables, sitting down like we’re commencing an important meeting.
“Am I missing something?”
“I don’t know, you tell me, Miss Bennett.”
I roll my eyes. “Please. You know I hate it when you call me that.”
“But when Mr. Moretti addresses you that way, you’re orgasming on the spot.”
I decide to take a seat opposite Sapphire, narrowing my eyes down on her.
“What is this? An intervention?” I stick my elbow on the table, resting my chin on my hand.
“I know I could totally screw this up for myself, ending up unemployed, not hirable and one hundred percent fucked for life, but the sex is otherworldly, Saph.”
“Whatever happens in that office is your business, but you should know all the facts first so you can make an informed decision, moving forward.”
“An informed decision about what?”
Sapphire glances over her shoulder before lowering her voice, facing me. “I met Salvatore Moretti at the hospital earlier, asking where he could find the main wards.”
“How generous of him,” I say, taking my first sip of coffee. “Wanting to pay his victim a visit after beating the shit out of him.”
“I know, right?” says Sapphire. “Paying the guy you beat up in a private hospital is one thing, but in a public hospital where eyes and ears are everywhere? Something isn’t adding up.”
“Unless he didn’t beat the guy up…”
Sapphire looks at me like I’m speaking a different language. “What other explanation would there be? You walked into his office and a man was bleeding.”
“Severely bleeding.”
Sapphire angles her head to the side. “I’ll judge the definition of severe.”
“But you know what I mean. It was more than a pin prick. Enough for him to dye my resignation letter red.”
“God,” mutters Sapphire, folding her arms over the table. “Mr. Moretti has a lot of charm, but he was being inconspicuous."
“How?”
“I had a feeling. Billionaire CEOs rarely show their face in hospitals unless they’re running a charity event.”
“And was he?”
Sapphire flashes me a dead look. “Salvatore avoids public affairs like the plague.”
“Maybe he gets camera shy.”
Another dead look from Sapphire. “Or maybe he would rather see the rest of the world suffer.”
I grind my jaw, contemplating that comment. Sapphire could have a point. All the evidence I have on Mr. Moretti so far points to him doing more bad deeds than good. I suppose you can get away murder with a face like that.
“You look like you’re drinking outdated milk,” observes Sapphire. “What is it?
“I’m pretty sure my boss was involved in organized crime when he was a teenager."
Sapphire blinks rapidly, trying to come to terms with that. “What the hell, Phee?”
“It sounds bizarre, I know, but the crow tattoo he has across his chest is identical to a drawing my mother sketched out back when she was alive.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m positive.”
“But that makes no sense.”
“I know, but there has to be a correlation here. I asked Aunt Viv about the drawing, thinking she was the one who sketched the crow. She told me a group of teenage boys used to run rampage, vandalizing shit and stealing bleach around the city. She assured me the Crows were no big deal and the entire thing was safely buried in the past, but my mom wouldn’t warn me about the Crows on her deathbed for the fucking crack. ”
Sapphire watches me closely. She thought the Crows thing was hilarious, like me, a symptom of the medication. Clearly, I’m not going crazy—she looks like she has a sour taste in her mouth now.
“Something was left unburied.”
“The question is what?”
“Your boss still has to be involved.”
“The Crows could be still flying around the city,” I state.
“Shit, Phee,” cusses Sapphire under her breath, nibbling on the corner of her lip. “Lives could be at stake here.”
“I think we could be getting ahead of ourselves with murder.”
“This organization existed when your parents were around our age, correct?”
“My parents?” I scoff. “Talking about my father is a waste of time.”
“Right,” says Sapphire. “Because he disappeared before you were even born.” She swipes a finger over her lip in contemplation. “Maybe he was connected to the Crows somehow.”
“It’s a possibility, but what difference does it make? He still abandoned me.”
“Salvatore could know your parents, more specifically, your mother…” Sapphire looks at me questioningly. “You don’t think your mother and Salvatore…?”
“Gross, no way. Besides, my mother never dated. It was only ever me and her.”
Sapphire runs a hand through her dark hair, staring at me intently. “Conspiracies aside, we know something for sure—your boss could be dangerous. You need to tread with caution, Phee.”
“Working as his assistant gives me the perfect opportunity to dig. Only a few other people in the company have access to what I do. This is my time to strike.”
Sapphire glances over her shoulder again, her voice almost a whisper. “You need to be careful. He could kill you.”
“I highly doubt that, considering he refused my letter of resignation.”
“Yeah, because you’re not on his radar. The second he suspects something, you could lose everything.”
“Including very good sex,” I joke.
Sapphire flashes me a look, not finding that funny in the slightest. “Don’t poke the bear. Investigate by all means but do it covertly.”
“Don’t worry, I’m good at hiding my tracks.”
“Until your heels are clomping on the floor, announcing your presence to everyone,” scoffs Sapphire. “You should start wearing flats.”
“Flats are for people who have given up in life,” I say, taking a final sip of coffee and taking the rest for the road. “I should go.” I rise from the table, embracing Sapphire in a tight hug. “Let me know if he pays the hospital another visit.”
“Yes,” says Sapphire. “And maybe find out why he beat the guy up. That could be our lead if the dude knew too much.”
I snap around, a lightbulb flicking on in my head. “You can ask him yourself.”
“Excuse me?”
“The patient—if he’s still in the hospital, of course.”
“That would be risky. It’s in a different department. But I’ll see what I can do,” says Sapphire, bidding me goodbye.
I cross the road, coffee in hand, and head straight back to the office on the top floor, ready to get started with some investigating. Salvatore is rarely out of the building, so I have to make the most of this time.
Putting my thinking cap on, I start by pulling out boxes under his desk, scanning documents for the word ‘Crow.’ After another unsuccessful ten minutes of nothing, I jump behind his desk, logging into the computer.
Oh, the perks of being Salvatore Moretti’s assistant, knowing all of his passwords.
I look through meeting reports, stock information I don’t really understand.
After scrolling through settings on his web browser, inspecting the search history, I sit back into the office chair, defeated, having wasted more precious time.
I’m drumming my nails on the solid oak desk, contemplating what Mr. Moretti will do to me later, when the web address at the top of the screen grabs my attention.
At first glance, everything appears to look fine, but web addresses are usually made up of words and numbers, not a bunch of random letters.
Leaning forward, I click on the search bar, viewing the full address. Endless random numbers extend across the page. Salvatore is using outdated software, and the portfolio takes a bazillion years to load when I refresh the page.
Am I looking at the dark web?
I watch the screen for a while, mulling some things over.
Messing around on Mr. Moretti’s computer is risky, seeing as though there are multiple types security software running in the background of the system.
Interestingly, none of them have flagged the dodgy-looking web address, but I suppose Salvatore chooses what the software decides to flag.
I rise from the desk, leave the office and head into the male bathrooms on a hunch. Only a select few people have access to this floor—Robert, a few other executives, myself, and the leader himself.
After knocking, hearing no response, I push open the door, entering the male bathroom. The stalls all unlocked, the place completely empty.
I push open the three stalls, searching every corner until I come across a folder.
Propping myself up against the sinks, I open the folder. But before I can open it all the way, a polaroid slips out.
I squat down, retrieve it from the floor and flip it around. I have officially found gold.
I abandon the folder, staring at the polaroid. A group of teenage boys, pose with neutral faces outside of a dilapidated building, hands clasped at their fronts, looking like they mean fucking business.
While analyzing each of their faces, looking for Salvatore in the picture, I come across something much more interesting. An older man stands in the middle of the group, his face completely ruined, like he was set on fire… or drowned in bleach…
The bathroom door flies open before I can gather my thoughts. I glance up, feeling like a deer in headlights as I make eye contact with my boss.
Uh oh. I’m in deep shit.