His Little Angel (The Morelli Brothers #3)

Chapter 1

Perfect. Composed. Professional.

That’s the mask I wear as I stand in the corner of Enzo Morelli’s office, watching him fire ten people in under fifteen minutes. Ten. And I’m the one who has to replace them. Pronto. Meaning: by yesterday.

I wasn’t always this put together. The first time he went off on someone—two weeks after I was hired—I cried. I almost got fired for that. Lesson learned.

The second time, I forced a smile so stiff it made my jaw hurt. He pulled me aside and told me to “fix my face,” and if I was constipated, to see a doctor.

“We have good health insurance,” he added, dead serious.

Charming.

By the third meltdown, I learned.

Fake indifference until it becomes real. Now this is a normal part of my job: watch as he fires people, rush to my laptop to update our job listings, interview candidates, and replace them. Do it over and over again until we find the right fit.

I get it now, though. He doesn’t tolerate mistakes or negligence. Ever. That’s why his construction empire owns half of New York’s skyline. If you snooze, you lose.

So I adapted.

I’m never late—always fifteen minutes early.

In three years, I’ve taken exactly four days of PTO, and only because my sister went into labor.

I finish tasks before he even asks. I know his coffee by heart.

One look from him, and I know whether to dismiss a startup or let them through.

I’ve stayed in this damn office with him until 2 a.m., only to clock back in at 7:15 the next morning, running on three hours of sleep.

This is why I’m the longest-lasting assistant he’s ever had. Before me, the record was five months. And yeah—it’s brutal.

But it pays well. Six figures. Loans paid off. Actual savings in my bank account. For that, I’m grateful to the Morelli Foundation. Truly.

But outside the workload?

I have one… tiny problem.

I’ve fallen in love with my boss.

Enzo Morelli.

One of the most powerful, richest, coldest men in New York. A man who could end someone’s entire career with one email. A man with a soul made of concrete.

At first—my first weeks—I simply noted that he was attractive. That was it.

Six foot five. One of the few men who still tower over my five-foot-seven self, even in heels.

Built like a damn bodybuilder thanks to a sadistic gym schedule.

Black hair always slicked back—silver already threading through his beard, even though he’s only twenty-nine.

You’d have to be blind not to notice how attractive he is.

But then I started noticing the parts no one else sees.

How he always leaves a bit of his lunch to feed the stray cats outside—while loudly insisting he hates them.

How he quietly moved Mary’s office to the first floor after her cancer diagnosis so she wouldn’t have to battle the stairs or the cursed elevator.

How he once tied the shoelaces of one of our elderly janitors because the man had just had back surgery.

There’s something human under the monster.

Don’t get me wrong—no one climbs to the top without blood under their nails. He’s not a good man.

He’s just… complicated.

My feelings started as a harmless crush. Then he got into my head. Then my routine. Then every corner of my life.

Now I can’t look at another man without comparing him to Enzo.

Oh, Enzo’s taller.

Oh, Enzo’s more capable.

Enzo would know what to do.

Enzo. Enzo. Enzo.

Pathetic.

Because he will never love me. He will never date someone outside his status. He probably doesn’t even see me as a woman—just a functioning extension of his schedule.

And if I don’t leave now, I’m going to become a lonely cat lady who flinches every time she hears the word meeting.

Watch my day, and you’ll understand.

7:15 a.m.

I’m in the office, hunting down the cleaning crew to point out the microscopic spots they missed. I do not have the emotional capacity to hire ten new people this week. God help me.

7:30 a.m.

I make his black coffee. One time, I brought him coffee from a shop down the street. He took one sip, poured it down the drain, and said, “I only want the coffee you make.”

Total man-child behavior.

But me—with my dumb crush—had a moment where I imagined him saying that to me while I was barefoot and pregnant with child number two-point-five.

Whatever. Don’t judge me.

8:00 a.m.

He arrives.

I greet him, hand him his schedule, walk him to meetings, send rejections, send approvals, and send flowers when he snaps his fingers.

Mr. Morelli this.

Mr. Morelli that.

Mr. Morelli, Mr. Morelli, Mr. Morelli.

We’re glued at the hip. Three years of being the first person he sees in the morning and the last one when he leaves. Three years of giving him every ounce of energy, loyalty, and dedication I have.

If I stay, I will never move on.

I started working for him when I was twenty—basically a kid. All the moments I should’ve spent growing into myself? I spent them orbiting him.

I trained myself to need his approval.

To please him.

To anticipate him.

And in the process, I wrecked my love life before it even started. My sex life has taken a hit as well. I either go through months-long dry spells because I don’t find anyone but him attractive, or I go rampant—fantasizing that it’s him every single time.

None of this is healthy.

So yes.

I need to quit.

Before he ruins me completely.