Chapter 2 #2
“Yeah.”
The door opens, and Tony Marchetti walks in.
Tony works for Lorenzo Castellano, one of the smaller famiglia in our network. He’s a thick-necked enforcer with more muscle than brains, but he’s reliable. Loyal. The kind of man who follows orders without asking questions.
He’s not alone.
The woman behind him is blonde. Tall. Beautiful in the manufactured way—perfect makeup, perfect hair, a dress that leaves little to imagination. She knows exactly why she’s here. Her smile is practiced, inviting, promising.
“Mr. D’Amico.” Tony nods respectfully. “Mr. Castellano sends his regards. And a gift.”
He gestures at the blonde like she’s a prize at an auction.
I lean back in my chair.
This isn’t unusual. Lorenzo has been sending me women for years—a gesture of respect, of alliance, of the complicated politics that bind our organizations together.
The blonde steps forward. Her hips sway with every movement, a performance she’s clearly rehearsed. She stops in front of my desk, head tilted, lips parted.
“Mr. D’Amico.” Her voice is honey and smoke. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
I look at her.
She’s objectively stunning. The kind of woman who turns heads everywhere she goes. The kind of woman men fight over, lie for, spend fortunes trying to impress.
I feel nothing.
No spark. No interest. No desire.
Just a faint irritation at the interruption.
“Tell Lorenzo I appreciate the thought,” I say. “But I’m busy.”
The blonde’s smile falters. She’s not used to rejection. Women who look like her rarely are.
“I could wait,” she offers. “Until you’re done.”
“No.”
Tony shifts uncomfortably. He knows better than to argue, but this isn’t the outcome he expected. He’ll have to report back to Lorenzo, explain that his gift was refused. There might be questions. Wounded pride.
I don’t care.
“Escort her out,” I tell him. “And close the door behind you.”
Tony nods, takes the blonde’s arm, begins guiding her toward the exit.
She pauses at the door and looks back at me over her shoulder.
“Looks like someone beat me to it.” A faint smile. “Lucky girl.”
Beat me to it.
What the hell does that mean?
I’ve refused women before. Plenty of times. Usually because I was busy, or tired, or simply not in the mood. It never prompted commentary. Never warranted analysis.
So why does her observation feel like it’s pointing at something I haven’t acknowledged?
“She’s joking, Mr. D’Amico. Long flight, you know how it is.” Tony shoots her a warning look. “Apologize.”
“I’m not fucking joking.” She shrugs off his grip. “Lorenzo told me this would be worth my time. Said you appreciate quality, that you’re... particular.” Her eyes narrow slightly. “I flew in from Vegas for this. Six hours on a plane, and you won’t even look at me twice.”
There’s irritation there now. Like I’ve failed to meet an expectation I was never informed of.
“Lorenzo says a lot of things. Most of them expensive for someone else,” I say. “Take it up with him. I’m sure he’ll be very sorry.”
She opens her mouth, clearly ready to argue.
Tony doesn’t let her.
He grabs her arm again and pushes her through the door.
“Apologies, Mr. D’Amico. Won’t happen again.”
The door closes.
Silence settles back into place.
I turn to the Martinez files. Shipping manifests. Customs records. The details that keep everything running without notice.
This is where my attention should be.
Instead, her words linger.
Someone beat me to it.
A throwaway remark. Nothing more than irritation dressed up as wit.
It shouldn’t stick.
My mind keeps drifting.
To her. The assistant. Mendez.
I’ve had beautiful women throw themselves at me for years. Models, actresses, the kind of arm candy that makes other men jealous. I’ve used them when I wanted them and discarded them when I didn’t.
None of them ever made me feel this.
This... awareness.
The blonde had everything going for her—willing, available, persistent enough to fly across the country for a shot at my attention.
I dismissed her without hesitation.
And somehow, I’m still thinking about someone else entirely.
A receptionist. Tired eyes, unsteady hands, fear she couldn’t quite hide—and beneath it, a refusal to fold.
That’s what sticks.
I lean back slightly, considering it.
There are ways to deal with this. Clean ones. Simple ones.
I don’t reach for them.
I’m curious.
And I’m selfish—always have been.
Because I want to see how far it goes—what happens when someone like her is left in a place like this, under pressure she doesn’t fully understand yet.
Does she bend? Break?
Or does she surprise me?
A knock interrupts the thought.
“Come in.”
She steps inside with a stack of papers—afternoon correspondence, neatly organized. She sets them down without looking at me, already turning to leave.
“Mendez.”
She stops but doesn’t turn.
“Yes?”
“The coffee this morning.” I let the pause stretch just enough. “It was… fucking adequate.”
A beat of silence.
“Thank you… Raffaele.”
Still forced. Still costing her.
Good.
She leaves, the door closing softly behind her.
I’m alone again—with the files, the city beyond the glass, and the quiet, irritating awareness that something has shifted.
Something I can’t name and can’t control.
Yet.
Which is fascinating.
And fucking inconvenient.