Chapter 7 #2
“And he reports to Nico, mostly. One of his pet projects. Which is part of why this situation is so delicate. If Martinez goes down, it reflects on the heir apparent. And Nico doesn’t handle embarrassment well.”
“Noted.”
“Now. The Morenos.”
She shifts in her chair. The dress moves with her.
“Victor Moreno Sr. Head of the Moreno family. Controls the ports and significant portions of the union infrastructure. His son, Victor Jr., is being groomed to take over the operation. They’ve been in a territorial dispute with the Contis for at least two decades, possibly longer.”
“Rivals. Yes. Though ‘dispute’ is generous. Victor Sr. would slit Vincenzo’s throat in his sleep if he thought he could get away with it.
The son is different. Smarter. More patient.
He doesn’t just want the Conti territory—he wants to be seen taking it.
Wants the victory to mean something.” I tilt my head. “You’ve met him.”
“At the restaurant.”
“And?”
“He was...” She chooses her words carefully. “Charming. In a way that felt deliberate.”
“Everything about Victor Jr. is deliberate. Remember that.” I lean forward. “Who else?”
“Nico Conti.”
“And what do you know about Nico?”
“He’s Vincenzo’s son. The heir.” She hesitates. “He seemed... upset. On the phone just now.”
“You heard that.”
“The walls aren’t that thick.”
Fair point.
“Nico is impulsive, entitled, and convinced he deserves a throne he hasn’t earned. He’s also Vincenzo’s only legitimate child, which means he inherits regardless of merit.” I pause. “Technically, he’s an ally. We work for the same family. We want the same things, broadly speaking.”
“But?”
“But nothing. He’s an ally.” I hold her gaze. “Stay away from him regardless.”
“Noted.” She flips a page in the folder, pretending to read. “Anyone else I should know about?”
“One more.”
I slowly stand and move around the desk.
She tracks my movement without turning her head. I catch the slight shift of her eyes, the way her shoulders tense almost imperceptibly.
“Raffaele D’Amico.”
Now she looks up.
“What about him?”
“You tell me. You’ve been working for him for weeks now. Surely you’ve formed an opinion.”
“Is this part of the assessment?”
“Everything is part of the assessment.”
She holds my gaze for a beat. Then that professional mask slides back into place—the one she thinks protects her.
“Raffaele D’Amico. Senior partner at D’Amico & Associates.
Handles high-profile cases for clients with complicated backgrounds.
Known for his discretion and his results.
Exposed to an unfortunate number of assault charges and money laundering schemes for someone who claims to practice legitimate law. ”
“Thorough.” I move closer. “If a little pointed.”
“It’s what’s documented.”
“And undocumented?”
I stop at the corner of the desk. Lean against it.
“What would you say about him off the record, Miss Mendez? When no one’s listening?”
The formal address lands differently in this context. I see it register.
“I’d say he’s used to getting what he wants.”
“True.”
“I’d say he enjoys making people uncomfortable. Particularly people who work for him.”
“Also true. What else?”
“I’d say...” Her voice wavers. “He has boundary issues.”
“Harsh. But fair.”
I reach out and tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers linger at the curve of her jaw.
“This Raffaele person.” My thumb traces along her cheekbone. “He sounds like quite the gentleman.”
“That’s not the word I’d use.”
“No?” I let my hand drift lower. Along her jaw. Down to the curve of her neck. Feel her swallow. “What word would you use?”
“Dangerous.”
“Mm. That’s a good one.” My fingers rest against her collarbone. Light. Barely there. “Any others?”
“Arrogant.”
“Fair.”
“Manipulative.”
“Now you’re just flattering me.”
She almost smiles.
“You said something interesting the other night.” I tilt her chin up. Force her to meet my eyes. “At the restaurant. You accused this D’Amico gentleman of certain... intentions.”
“I remember.”
“You said he wanted something from you. That he was playing games. Chasing.” I lean closer.
“Tell me something, Bea. If he’s really the kind of man who takes what he wants—if he’s already abandoned all responsibility tonight, skipped the most important event of the season, invented fake work just to keep you here, alone, in this empty building...
“Then what’s stopping him?”
The question hangs.
“I don’t know.” A whisper.
Something shifts in my chest. Something primal. Hungry.
My hand moves lower, from her throat down to where the red silk meets skin. She watches me—catalogs every movement, every inch of contact. She makes no move to stop me.
I cup her breast through the fabric. I feel her breath hitch. Her body arches toward me, just slightly, just enough.
Not enough.
My hand slips under the silk. Into the warmth of her bra.
Fuck.
She’s soft. Warm. Her nipple hardens against my palm and she makes a sound—small, involuntary, caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan. It does something to me. Something electric sparks in my chest, spreading lower, demanding more.
I watch her face. The way her eyes flutter half-closed. The way her lips part. The way she’s giving herself over to this, to me, even as some part of her knows she shouldn’t.
Fucking mine.
My phone rings.
The sound cuts through the tension like a blade. She flinches. I don’t—but it takes more effort than it should.
I glance at the screen.
Vincenzo.
Of course.
The old man. Timing impeccable as always, reaching through the phone to cockblock me from across the city.
I pull my hand back.
She’s staring at me. Flushed. Chest heaving. Looking at me like she doesn’t know whether to slap me or pull me back.
I silence the phone before slipping it into my pocket.
But the moment is gone. Whatever was building between us—whatever was about to happen—has evaporated. The interruption broke something, and I can see her pulling back, that professional mask sliding into place again.
I step away from her. Don’t offer an explanation. I don’t owe her one.
I’ve already pushed past every boundary I set for myself tonight. Skipped the gala. Invented work to keep her here. Dressed her up, cornered her, touched her.
The “gentleman pass” has been thoroughly abused and should be revoked.
Discovering something new about myself.
That’s what I’ve been telling myself. An experiment. Observing her. Seeing how far I could push before she breaks.
Fancy vocabulary for wanting to fuck my assistant.
I walk past her without a word. Through the door. Down the hallway. Into the empty conference room at the end of the floor.
The city glitters beyond the windows. Indifferent. Uncaring.
That primalness. I know it well. Usually I channel it after hours—with the Marisols, the girls Lorenzo sends, women I don’t give a fuck about. Nothing personal about any of it. A physical release, mechanical and forgettable, and then back to work.
But Bea has fucked up my schedule. What just happened back there is proof of it. I don’t touch women I work with. I don’t skip galas for them. I don’t invent reasons to keep them close.
I don’t slip my hand into their bras in my office and feel something other than simple want.
How the hell would this night even end?
I could go back. Be what I’ve always been. Take what I want and deal with the consequences later. I’m a criminal, for fuck’s sake. I’ve done worse things than this before breakfast.
But she feels like she needs... more. A ceremony. Something I haven’t figured out yet.
It’s going to happen. I know that now. The inevitability of it sits in my chest like a stone.
I just—
Fuck.
The phone buzzes again. Vincenzo. Persistent.
I’ll see what the old man needs.
I open the phone.