15. Salvatore
SALVATORE
I take a seat at the conference table on Monday morning, issuing Robert a throat-slitting motion as I draw my hand across my neck. “Rough weekend.”
“A fucking heart attack? Could you not have killed Wilson the salesman in a better way?”
“It was the first thing that came to mind.”
“And the memorial service?” I continue flashing Robert a glare. “This was supposed to be nipped in the bud.”
“Your employee passes away and you want to nip it in the bud?” Robert laughs, shaking his head.
“That is the worst thing you can do when we have someone in the shadows potentially trying to overthrow us.” Robert nets his hands, staring across the conference table at me like we’re in a meeting of our own.
The four attendees waiting outside seem to think so as they wait to be let in.
“It’s causing a fuss.”
“No,” says Robert. “We’re taking preventative action. We spoke about this before. Perhaps you were too busy thinking about fucking your assistant at the time.”
“You’re walking on thin ice with me, Rob.”
“The ice would have cracked by now. You’re lucky you have me,” says Robert. “If we sweep Wilson’s death under the rug, people will eventually start asking questions. A boss should care about his employees and offer sympathy when one of them sadly passes away.”
“Sadly,” I scoff.
“The truth always comes out, so you may as well announce the truth before it does its rounds. The last thing you want is people calling you heartless.”
“A memorial is too close to home.”
“No,” says Robert. “It shows you care about your employees.”
“Whatever,” I grumble, flagging my men in. “We should get started with this meeting.”
The door opens, attendees filtering in. Ophelia is one of the last to enter, blonde locks bouncing over her shoulders.
“Good morning, Miss Bennett,” I say, welcoming her in.
I take a look at her outfit, wondering why she has chosen to wear a skirt this long, draping all the way down to the floor. The high-neck blouse is also very peculiar. She looks like she’s attending a church service, not a business meeting.
Ophelia walks straight past me, taking a seat at the conference table as the rest of the team get settled.
I clear my throat, pinning her a glare across the table. “You’ll be sitting beside me, Miss Bennett,” I say, snapping my fingers, untucking the chair.
“Most certainly, sir.”
The meeting runs smoothly. Ophelia returns to being my assistant, pen scratching against paper as she keeps her head down, eyes focused on the notes in front of her as I liaise with my senior leadership team.
When we end the meeting, Ophelia’s the first to close her notebook and wriggle out of the room.
One glance at her has her stalling, frozen on the spot. She turns around rigidly, eyes eventually finding mine, like she’s waiting to be punished. That will come later if she is lucky.
She turns around, heading toward me as the room clears, men filtering out of the door.
“Sir,” she acknowledges me, nodding her head courteously.
“I should hope you learned your lesson on Friday, Miss Bennett,” I say, clasping my hands on the glass table. “No more funny business. You follow my orders, staying on the path I have put you on.”
“You know,” she begins, clutching the folder to her chest. “Bosses typically fire their assistants when they act out of line. Perhaps you should take another look at my resignation letter.” She angles her head to the side, playing me. “I could always write you another one.”
“That won’t be necessary, Miss Bennett.”
“Did you hear what happened to Lenny Foster?”
“How do you know that name?”
Ophelia pouts her lips, staring at me with those wide eyes. “I know more than I probably should...”
I shoot up from behind the desk, putting the woman in her place. “What did I tell you about—?”
“Going above my paygrade? Unfortunately, I never learn. Firing me might teach me a lesson,” she says, glancing pointedly at my crotch. “But we both know I’m far too… valuable… to let go.”
“Don’t test me, Miss Bennett.”
“Or what?” she says, batting her long lashes at me. “You’ll cut off my benefits? Maybe I don’t want them anymore.”
I drag my eyes up and down her body. “Your modest outfit is only fooling one person in this room, sweetheart. You think wearing a long skirt will stop me from being able to smell your arousal?” Glancing through the window, making sure the coast is clear, I slip a hand under her skirt, feeling her wet panties. “Just as I expected.”
“What are you doing?”
“Patting down my assistant. As the owner of this company, I’m allowed to perform random checks.”
“You do this a lot?”
I look at her face, my chest tensing when I look into her broken eyes for too long. Ophelia is such a sweet little angel, just wanting to feel special.
“Is that jealousy I sense, Miss Bennett?”
“No,” she says, swallowing. “I just… to know if touching my pussy was necessary."
“It was necessary for us both.” I step closer. “Everyone in this company behaves themselves, but you.”
Not entirely true. I murdered Wilson for spreading gossip last week, but I’ll bury myself alive before I make my assistant bleed.
I stare deep into her eyes, seeing straight through the facade. High heels and attitude go a long way, but they don’t quite cover up the jealousy. Behind the mask is a woman who wants to be needed by someone, a woman who has never been needed before.
We’re on opposite ends of the spectrum, and yet it feels like we’re meeting in the middle.
I understand Ophelia more than she understands herself.
I used to feel like her when I was a teenager.
Being needed was my ultimate goal in life.
After losing my parents and running away from the foster system, I spent my days on the street watching others play happy families.
Life was so unfair. God was rubbing everyone else’s happiness in my face, which is why I turned my back on Him and started answering to the devil, also known as Renato Vieri.
As I climbed the ranks, carrying out jobs for the leader of the Crows, people started needing me. I felt useful, and I know Ophelia feels a similar way now, working as my assistant.
But people needing you is separate from your worth as a human being.
The second people find out who I really am, I go back to being that boy who slept in cardboard every night, who watched other people live instead of living himself.
Being needed is transactional, and people only praise me because they need something from me. Money. Opportunities. Job prospects. Social media clout—the worst of them all. Every single fucking person I encounter talks to me out of greed… all but Ophelia.
Staring into her adorning blue eyes, I wonder if that is still the case. She knows about my informant Lenny Foster. After snooping around in the male bathroom, inspecting an old polaroid like a detective gathering evidence, I can’t help but wonder if she wants something from me.
I should silence her for good, listen to my underboss, but I listen to my heart instead of my brain and allow myself to be consumed by those ocean eyes.
“You know something,” I tell her, bringing myself back into my head before things turn incredibly south. “Tell me everything you know.”
I glance over her shoulder, watching employees pass outside.
Nearly all of them turn their heads, stealing glances into the meeting room.
A lot of people think me and her are having an office romance.
I’m so fucking close to calling a company meeting and announcing it in front of everyone, so these male employees know their place.
But I know how Ophelia would feel about that. For some reason, I feel the need to respect her wishes, even though she doesn’t seem to be respecting mine.
“Why do you want me to tell you?” asks Ophelia. “You’ll shut everything down anyway.”
“You know Lenny died. How do you know this information?”
“Because I have friends who look out for me,” says Ophelia, watching me carefully. “You’re an incredibly busy man with a hundred other places you need to be, and yet you have time to visit a man in hospital.”
“It was in the evening.”
“The time of day is irrelevant,” says Ophelia. “A billionaire like you always has somewhere else they need to be. Why check in on the guy you apparently never beat up?
“You don’t believe me,” I state, staring deep into her eyes, feeling something crack within.
People generally believe everything that comes out of my mouth. Money buys cars and real estate, but above all else, it buys opinion.
Everyone believes what I say. They can disagree on the inside, but they know better than to upset a billionaire entrepreneur. Sucking up and agreeing is how people think they can earn my respect, but it is quite the opposite.
Ophelia has always impressed me, and because I have so much respect for the girl, it hurts that she thinks I’m lying.
“What exactly are you saying here, Miss Bennett?” I lean into the table, folding my arms over my chest. “You think I killed Lenny Foster?”
Her silence tells me yes.
I grind my jaw, on the verge of bursting, of taking her back to my penthouse and showing her who I really am.
“Let me tell you something, sweetheart,” I say, putting myself in her shoes for a second, trying to see the world from her point of view. “Danger surrounds us like an invisible cloak, and in a city like New York, you have to pick your poison."
“Who the hell are you?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I wink.
“This isn’t a joke,” hisses Ophelia, her eyes filling with venom, letting me know which poison she might be picking…
“My mother dies and leaves fragments of the past behind, and I’m meant to ignore it and stay on the stupid path you tell me to stay on?
If your entire life has been based on a lie, are you supposed to continue living the lie?
To forget about the truth, close the books and spend the rest of your life wearing rose tinted glasses? ”
“The truth can hurt, sweetheart.”
“Losing my mother hurt. But working for a man who had a hand in her death hurts more than the grief.”