Chapter 5
BEA
A week in. I’ve learned his rhythms.
Coffee at nine, black, no sugar. Silence until ten—he reads briefs and doesn’t like interruptions.
Lunch is skipped more often than not, replaced by phone calls that he takes standing at the window, gazing over the city like he owns it.
He works until eight in the evening, sometimes later.
The only variation is the occasional visitor—always announced, always brief.
I’ve learned other things too.
The way his jaw tightens when he’s irritated. The particular stillness that settles over him before he says something cutting. The slight shift in his posture when someone has disappointed him—a straightening of the spine, a coldness in the eyes that makes grown men drop their gazes to their shoes.
And I’ve learned the weight of his words.
Because when I decide to have you, I will.
It echoes. It echoes at night, when I’m lying in my too-small bed staring at my ceiling.
It echoes during the day, when I’m supposed to be filing or typing or doing any of the hundred menial tasks that have suddenly appeared on my desk.
It haunts me every time he walks past me, every time I catch the scent of his cologne, every time his hand brushes mine when I hand him a document.
I hate that I notice. I hate that I remember.
This morning, my desk is buried under paperwork.
Not the usual work of briefs and contracts and carefully organized files I’ve become familiar with.
This is busywork. Sorting invoices from three years ago.
Cross-referencing client lists that haven’t been updated since before I was hired.
Reorganizing a filing cabinet that was already perfectly organized.
Punishment.
He hasn’t said so directly. He hasn’t acknowledged the event at all, actually—not the ride I accepted from Victor, not the way I threw his words back at him, not the look on his face when I walked out.
But this morning when I arrived at a quarter to nine as usual, there was a stack of folders on my desk with a Post-it note in his handwriting.
Complete by end of day.
Nothing else. No explanation. No context. Just work designed to keep me busy and remind me of my place.
I’ve been at it for three hours. My eyes ache from reading faded receipts. My back hurts from hunching over files that should have been digitized years ago. And Raffaele has been in his office the entire time, door closed, in what appears to be back-to-back meetings.
Which is unusual.
Normally, he moves through the day with a rhythm I can predict. Calls in the morning. Brief reviews at my desk to check on progress. A meeting or two, rarely more than an hour each. Time spent at his window, thinking about whatever it is that men like him think about.
Today, nothing. The door opened once, to admit a man in a gray suit I didn’t recognize. It closed. Muffled voices. Then another man, different suit. Then another.
Three meetings before lunch. No acknowledgment of my existence.
Is he avoiding me? The idea sticks just long enough to be annoying.
Why would I care if he’s avoiding me? This is a job. A prison sentence dressed up as employment. The less I see of Raffaele D’Amico, the better.
Except.
You wear it well. I shake my head. Focus on the invoices.
It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. I just need to get through the day, go home, and figure out what the hell I’m going to do with my life.
The men arrive around two.
I hear them before I see them—loud voices in the hallway, a burst of laughter that doesn’t belong in this quiet, carpeted space. The elevator doors open, and four of them spill out like they own the place.
They’re covered in tattoos. All of them.
Ink crawling up necks, disappearing under expensive shirts that don’t quite fit right.
The leader—at least I assume he’s the leader, based on the way the others orbit around him—has a snake tattoo coiled around his forearm, its head resting on the back of his hand.
They’re not lawyers. They’re not businessmen.
They’re exactly what this place pretends not to be.
“This D’Amico’s floor?” Snake Tattoo asks, not looking at me.
“Yes. Can I help you?”
Now he looks.
“Nice,” he says to the man beside him. “D’Amico’s got good taste in secretaries.”
“Assistant,” I correct, before I can stop myself.
“You answer phones, right? Fetch coffee?” An oily smile slithers over his face and his voice drops slightly. “Bend over filing cabinets?”
One of the others—younger, with less tattoos and marginally more aware—shifts uncomfortably. “Frankie, watch your mouth. D’Amico’s not gonna like—”
“What? I’m just talking.” Frankie spreads his hands, feigning innocence. “She’s just an assistant. Relax.” He turns back to me, grin widening. “You are just an assistant, right, sweetheart? Nothin’ special going on here?”
I don’t answer. My hands have stopped moving over the keyboard. My heart is beating harder than it should be.
“We’re here for D’Amico,” Frankie says, dropping into one of the chairs like he owns it. “He’s expecting us.”
“Didn’t think we’d ever get that meeting, though. Guy’s been putting it off forever.”
“In the meantime”—he gestures lazily toward me—“get us something to drink. Whiskey. The good stuff. I know he’s got it.”
The younger one is still watching me, like he wants to say something but knows better.
The other two have already checked out, talking on their phones in low voices, something in Italian.
“Mr. D’Amico is in a meeting,” I say. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“Do that.” A pause. “And the whiskey.”
I stand. My legs don’t feel entirely like my own.
The shift comes quietly. Not a realization so much as a piece settling into place.
This isn’t an office with secrets tucked behind closed doors anymore. The doors have been thrown wide open.
These are the people he works with. These are the men who follow his orders, who do the things he talks about on phone calls I’m not supposed to hear. The boat accidents. The problems that disappear.
This is his world. And I’m standing in the middle of it, pretending I’m just filing paperwork.
I move toward the liquor cabinet in the corner. My hands aren’t steady. I don’t try to suppress it. I reach for the whiskey.
The elevator is fifteen feet away.
Raffaele’s door is closed. Voices inside. He won’t hear anything out here.
The men behind me are distracted. Already bored.
I can make it.
I don’t think about it any longer than that. My feet are already moving—not toward the cabinet, not toward the men, but toward the elevator.
The button glows when I press it. The doors take forever to open.
Come on. Come on.
They slide apart. I step inside.
“Hey, where’re you—”
My heart squeezes, but I don’t look up. I just hit the button for the lobby, then the close-door button.
I finally lift my gaze. The last thing I see before the doors shut is a frowning Frankie, rising from his chair and reaching for his phone.
The lobby passes in a blur. Through the revolving doors. Into the afternoon sun.
I walk fast. Not running—running attracts attention—but fast enough that my heels click against the pavement in a staccato rhythm that matches my pulse.
I don’t have a plan.
I just need distance.
Distance from the office. From the men waiting there. From everything I’ve been pretending is manageable.
That’s enough for now.
He’s going to find out. Maybe he already has. A call. A message. Someone stepping into his office, interrupting whatever meeting he’s in.
“She left.” That’s all it takes.
There will be consequences. There are always consequences.
When I decide to have you, I will.
Not a threat. A timeline.
I pick up my pace.
Three blocks. My lungs start to burn. My feet protest with every step in these heels, but I keep going.
I’m actually going to—
The black SUV at the corner stops that thought cold.
It doesn’t belong. It’s too clean. Too still. The engine’s running. Someone’s inside. Watching.
I keep moving. Don’t react. Turn the corner. Faster now. My heel catches on a crack. I stumble, recover, keep going.
Another SUV halfway down the block. Different driver. Same attention.
Right. Of course.
I’m not out.
I was never out.
The police station is two blocks away. I can see it if I look for it—the faded blue, the cars out front. Structure. Authority. The illusion of safety.
I slow at the crosswalk. My hand hovers near my phone.
If I make it, then what?
Walk in and say what, exactly?
That my boss threatened me—with nothing to prove it? That I heard something I was never supposed to hear, and stayed anyway?
I’d have to explain why I’m still here. Why I kept working. Why I played along.
That part doesn’t sound good out loud. None of it does. And even if they believed me—how long before he knows?
I don’t need to guess what happens after that.
The light changes. People move around me, crossing, talking, living like nothing is wrong.
I stay where I am. Green turns to yellow turns to red.
Still not moving. Why am I not moving?
A hand closes around my elbow.
“Miss Mendez.”
I turn.
It’s one of the drivers.
“Mr. D’Amico would like you back at the office.”
Not a suggestion.
The executive floor is quiet when I return.
Frankie and his friends are gone—ushered into Raffaele’s office, probably, or sent away entirely.
I sit down. Try to stop my hands from shaking. Fail.
Raffaele’s door is closed. I can hear muffled voices behind it—the meeting continuing, or wrapping up, I can’t tell.
I wait.
A few minutes later, the door opens. Frankie and the others file out, barely glancing at me.
Then silence.
“Bea.” His voice from the doorway.
He’s leaning against his desk when I enter.
The door clicks shut behind me.
“Lovely day for a walk.”
“I needed air.”
“Three blocks’ worth?” He doesn’t move. Doesn’t raise his voice. “You stopped at the crosswalk. Stood there for two full minutes.”
“The light took long.”
“The light changed three times.” He finally looks at me. “You didn’t cross.”
I have no response to that.
“That’s what I find interesting.” He pushes off the desk and takes a step toward me. “Not that you ran—anyone would run. But that you stopped yourself.”
Another step. I hold my ground.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not stupid.”
“There’s that.” He stops in front of me. “But that’s not the only reason, is it?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“Nothing you don’t mean.”
He reaches out. His finger traces along my collar. Adjusting it. Barely touching skin. The contact sends electricity down my spine. I can only hope he doesn’t notice the goosebumps spreading along my skin.
“I told you there’d be consequences for disobedience.”
“I’m aware of the company policy on unauthorized breaks.”
“Company policy.” He laughs darkly. Something tightens low in my belly. “That’s cute. Is that how we’re framing this?”
“I’m an employee. You’re my employer.” At least my voice remains steady. “This is a workplace.”
“Sure, keep telling yourself that.”
His finger trails from my collar to my shoulder. Stops there. The weight of it is minimal, but I feel it everywhere.
“You know what the girls Lorenzo sends me have in common?”
“I don’t want to know.”
“They never say no. Never push back. Never look at me like they’re calculating the odds of stabbing me with my own letter opener.”
“I wasn’t—”
“Third drawer. Left side. You looked twice.” His eyes hold mine. “I notice things.”
He’s closer now. I didn’t see him move. But suddenly he’s right there, filling my vision, filling my lungs with the scent of him. The thing I refuse to name coils tighter in my stomach.
“You know what else I’ve noticed?”
“I’m sure you’ll tell me.”
“Your breathing changes when I’m in the room. You track my movements even when you’re pretending to type. And just now—your pupils dilated.”
“This is workplace harassment, you know.”
“Probably. Going to report me?” He leans in. His breath warm against my temple. I force myself not to close my eyes and lean in too. “We both know how that ends.”
“You’re proving my point about why I tried to leave.”
“Am I?” He pulls back. “Because your feet aren’t moving.”
He’s right. I’m rooted to the floor. My body has decided something my brain hasn’t caught up with yet.
“You were scared yesterday. And you’re scared now.” His head tilts slightly, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “But something tells me you like being scared. Am I wrong?”
I can’t answer. I don’t trust what might come out.
“Interesting.” His hand comes up to cup my chin and lift my face toward his. “Tell me to stop.”
My mouth opens. Closes.
“That’s what I thought.”
His thumb traces along my jaw.
I don’t step back.
I don’t lean in, either.
I just stay there, caught in that narrow space between decision and inaction.
“I have work tomorrow,” I whisper. Grasping for anything. “Early meeting.”
“You have coffee duty at nine. The Martinez brief isn’t due until Thursday.” His thumb stills. “Try again.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Now, that one I believe.” His grip tightens slightly. “But you’re still not saying stop.”
For a second, I think—
He lets go.
Just like that.
The absence of contact is abrupt enough to register.
He steps away, already turning, already back at his desk. Papers shift under his hands. Routine. Controlled. Like the last thirty seconds didn’t happen.
“Go home.”
I don’t move right away.
My skin still remembers where his hand was.
“Bea.”
He doesn’t look up. “Nine AM. Don’t be late. We’ll discuss your second reprimand later. I’m still deciding.”
“That’s it?”
“Unless you want to continue this conversation. Do you?”
I turn toward the door. My hand is on the handle when I stop.
“The paperwork. From this morning. I didn’t finish it.”
“I’m aware.”
“So, what happens to it?”
“It still needs to be done. Obviously.” I can hear the grin in his voice. “Won’t be much of a chase without some effort. Don’t you agree?”
Heat floods my face.
Chase.
He’s assuming I’m—that this is—that I’m playing along with whatever game he thinks we’re in.
I don’t turn around. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the flush I can feel burning across my cheeks.
I leave without another word.
In the elevator, I touch my chin. The skin feels different somehow. Branded.
What the hell was that?