Chapter 7
RAFFAELE
The building is empty.
It’s filled with that particular stillness that settles over a space when the last footsteps have faded and the elevators have gone quiet. The cleaning crew finished an hour ago. Security is downstairs, half-asleep in front of monitors showing nothing but empty hallways.
And I’m here. In my office. Reviewing briefs that could wait until morning.
Lorenzo is at the gala, Marcy on his arm. Vincenzo is there too. The Morenos. The minor families. Half the judges in the city, the ones who can still be bought.
Everyone who matters is in that ballroom right now.
Everyone except me.
I set down my pen. Lean back in my chair.
This wasn’t strategic. I can dress it up however I want—work obligations, timing, priorities—but the truth is simpler and more irritating. I chose to stay. I chose paperwork over politics, solitude over leverage, this office over a room full of people I’ve spent years cultivating.
That’s not how I operate. That’s not how I’ve ever operated.
And yet here I am. Sitting in the dark like some brooding antihero in a bad novel, waiting for—
Footsteps in the hallway.
I don’t move. I know the sound of her walk by now, the slight hesitation before she reaches my door.
“It’s almost ten.”
Bea. Standing in my doorway. Still in her work clothes.
“I’m aware.”
“The rest of the staff left hours ago.”
I don’t look up from the brief. Let her stand there. Let her wonder.
“We finished the Hartwell briefs at seven.” She steps into the office. Arms crossed. “Why am I still here?”
“Consider it your reprimand.”
“My what?”
“For your little excursion that day. Did you think that was forgotten?”
“Didn’t I already go through that? The whole filing backlog thing with Marcy?”
“I never specified that was the reprimand.” I gesture to the chair across from me. “Sit. We’re going to review the Martinez case.”
“The Martinez case was filed yesterday.”
“The Martinez case still has loose ends. Three of his associates are staring down assault charges, and if this isn’t handled cleanly, the whole thing turns into a problem I don’t have time for.
” I slide a folder across the desk. “I need a legal strategy that keeps them out of prison without creating additional exposure. You’re going to help me find one. ”
“Can’t you just handle it yourself? Make a call?”
“If it were that simple, you’d be home by now.” I lean back. “Believe me, I’d love nothing more than to milk that waitress situation and torment poor Harrison for another decade. The man sweats through his robes every time my name appears on his docket. It’s genuinely entertaining.”
“But?”
“But this one’s different. There’s a fed involved.
A real one — some ambitious prosecutor out of the Southern District who’s decided Antonio Martinez is going to be his career-making case.
” I tap the folder. “And Antonio, in his infinite wisdom, is in a position where if he goes down, he takes half the guys in our circle with him. Contracts, accounts, names—all of it sitting in files that this prosecutor would very much like to get his hands on.”
“A federal prosecutor,” she says. “So, the guy trying to put criminals in prison—”
“Is the one making my life difficult. Yes.”
She doesn’t respond. But I watch her absorb it—the realization that she’s sitting on the wrong side of every story she’s ever been told about justice.
“You look like someone just told you Santa Claus drowns puppies in his free time.”
“I’m processing.”
“Process faster. We have work to do.” I shrug.
“For what it’s worth, making Antonio disappear would solve ninety percent of my problems right now.
Solve the whole thing in one evening. One phone call, one shallow grave, half the city breathes easier.
” I tap the folder. “Unfortunately, killing clients tends to tank your Yelp score. Ruins the brand.”
She doesn’t laugh. I didn’t expect her to, and yet, I’m still slightly disappointed.
“You want me to help cover up assault.”
“I want you to assist. It’s in the job title.”
“I didn’t sign up to be an accessory to—”
“You signed up the moment you didn’t cross that street.” I hold her gaze. “Now sit down.”
She sits. Reluctantly, spine rigid with protest, but she sits.
She opens the folder, scans the first page. Her expression shifts to disgust, but it’s quickly controlled.
“This is...”
“Unpleasant. Yes. The legal system is full of unpleasant things dressed up in nice language.” I stand and walk to the closet in the corner of my office. “Speaking of nice things.”
I pull out a garment bag and set it on the desk between us.
“What’s that?”
“A gift.”
I unzip it slowly. Red silk spills out—deep, wine-dark, the same shade as the dress from the restaurant.
“You’ve been wearing the same three blouses in rotation for weeks. If you’re going to be my assistant—officially—you should look the part.”
“I’m not wearing that.”
“I wasn’t asking.”
“You can’t just—”
“I can.” I move around the desk. “I can do whatever I want. That’s the point you keep missing.”
She stands. Tries to step back. The chair blocks her retreat.
I stop in front of her.
“This.” My hand reaches out to trace the collar of her blouse, down to where the first button strains slightly. “This is what an underpaid receptionist wears. Not what a D’Amico assistant wears.”
Her breath catches. I feel it—the slight hitch, the tension that runs through her body like a current.
“You’re…”
“I’m what?”
She doesn’t answer.
My hand flattens against her collarbone.
What am I doing? Stop.
I yank my hand back.
She’s staring at me. Flushed, confused, waiting for something I’m not going to give her.
“The dress. Put it on.”
I watch her disappear down the hallway.
So, this is why you skipped the gala.
I sink into my chair. Run a hand through my hair.
The gala. Nico. Vincenzo. The Morenos. The delicate web of alliances and obligations I’ve spent fifteen years maintaining.
Fuck.
My phone rings.
I check the screen. The name flashing there is exactly who I expected.
Nico.
“Where the fuck are you?”
No greeting. No preamble.
“Good evening to you too.”
“Don’t give me that shit. I had to sit through twenty minutes of Moreno bullshit without backup. Do you know how that made me look? Victor was circling like a fucking shark, and every time someone asked where you were, I had to stand there like an idiot, saying I didn’t know.”
“You’re the heir to the Conti family. You should be able to handle a few hours of conversation without a chaperone.”
“Handle—” He sputters. “You were supposed to be there. You’re always there. What the hell was so important that you blew off the biggest sit-down of the year?”
“Work.”
“Work.” He laughs bitterly. “You blew off the gala for work. That’s your explanation.”
“That’s my explanation.”
“On what? What case could possibly be more important than—”
“I stayed because I wanted to.” I cut him off, voice flat. “That’s all you need to know.”
“That’s all I—” He’s practically choking on his own outrage. “You don’t get to just decide to skip these things. Vincenzo expects you there. I expect you there. You’re supposed to be—”
“I do. I just did.” I watch the hallway through the glass wall. Waiting. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Nico.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on—”
I hang up.
The silence that follows is almost pleasant.
I set the phone face down on my desk. Nico will fume. He’ll complain to Vincenzo. There will be conversations tomorrow, careful explanations, the usual dance of managing egos and expectations.
I find I don’t particularly care.
Footsteps. She’s coming back.
Bea rounds the corner, and the weight of Nico’s anger lifts off my shoulders. Just like that. Gone.
The dress fits her perfectly.
I had it tailored based on the same measurements as before—the ones from her employment file, adjusted after seeing how the first dress fell. The neckline is lower this time. The fabric clings differently. She looks...
I don’t hide that I’m looking. I let my gaze travel slowly down her body and back up again. Let her see exactly how much I’m appreciating the view.
“This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a dress.”
“It means quite a lot, actually.” I gesture for her to sit. “It means you’re officially my assistant. Not a receptionist on loan. Not a temporary arrangement. Not something I’m still deciding about. But mine.”
She sits. The red silk pools around her legs.
“Which brings us to your next lesson.” I settle back in my chair. “If you’re going to work for me, you need to understand the landscape. The families. The politics. The players.”
If I’m going to be stuck here doing paperwork instead of working the room at the gala, I might as well make it interesting.
“Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t—”
“Start with Martinez. You’ve read the file.”
She straightens, shifts into a more professional posture—spine stiffening, chin lifting, voice flattening into recitation mode. A defense mechanism. I’ve seen it before, in witnesses preparing for cross-examination. In people who think formality will protect them.
It won’t. But it’s entertaining to watch her try.
“Antonio Martinez. Forty-seven years old. Owns a chain of dry cleaners throughout the city, which serve as fronts for money laundering operations. In court documents, he’s presented as a legitimate businessman with strong community ties.
Three prior arrests, zero convictions. Known associates include members of the—”
“Boring.” I wave a hand. “You’re reading me a court filing. I asked who he is.”
“I don’t know who he is. I know what’s documented.”
“He’s a thug with a good accountant and an even better lawyer.
Me.” I allow a slight smile. “The dry cleaners are a front, yes, but they’re also genuinely profitable.
Martinez is smarter than he looks—which isn’t saying much, but it’s enough to keep him useful.
His real value is logistics. He moves things.
Product, money, people. Whatever needs to go from point A to point B without attracting official attention, Martinez handles it.