Chapter 2
TWO
LUCIEN
The doors of the elevator open, and I walk through the bustling offices. The sound, the morning hellos, the clinking of computer keys, phones ringing — all of it motivates me more than money ever could.
Not that I don’t have money. I have more than anyone would need in a lifetime, but it doesn’t give me purpose like work does. Keeps me focused on what’s important. Keeping my brothers safe, and our empire I’ve fought so damn hard to straighten out since our father’s death.
Being a Moretti, the child of one of New York’s most-feared underworld figures, isn’t an easy or safe place to be. A fact my father learned when he was gunned down on Twenty-Seventh Street and left to die when I was twenty three, and my four brothers younger still.
I grew up watching blood spill over debts unpaid and learned early that hesitation got men killed.
Before I ever sat behind a desk, I was the one collecting payments that were owed, putting bullets where they needed to go, cleaning up messes my father created.
I was very good at it, too — a little too good.
But I like predictable chaos now, not the unpredictable. It keeps the company running, the balance sheets clean, and my enemies guessing — and I know there are plenty of them. You cannot have the surname Moretti and not have a hater or two.
Not that I engage with any of them. Not anymore. If they keep their noses out of my business, I’ll keep my hands away from their throats and so far I’d been successful removing myself from my father’s world.
Some days, though, the old instincts itch beneath my skin — that urge to settle problems the way I was raised to, fast, final, and irreversible. Walking away didn’t erase the man I’d been. It just locked him in a steel cage I pray never needs opening again.
“Good morning, Mr. Moretti.”
“Morning,” I say automatically — and then realize I’m speaking to my new personal assistant.
Briar Locke.
I don’t say another word, just enter my office and set my briefcase down on my desk. I take out the monthly reports I went over during the weekend and frown. I take a calming breath and ignore the niggling doubt over hiring my accountant’s cousin.
Will she prove useful? Or as useless as the last one? A woman far too occupied with trying to get into my bed than getting her work done before five p.m.
Through the open doorway, I catch glimpses of Briar — head bent over her new company laptop, dark hair loose around her shoulders, lips pressed in concentration as she types.
Her white linen shirt is cheap. I notice that instantly.
Her nails are bare, makeup subtle. Not like most who sit in that chair. She’s naturally beautiful and striking.
She doesn’t belong here. Not in my world. She seems too soft to last working for me. My assistants in the past have had backbone, a little spunk. But Briar? I get the impression she’s intimidated by me.
Like I’d eat her for breakfast.
Not an impossibility.
My hand pauses on my phone as images of her spread on my desk, legs wide, her glistening sweet flesh mine to lick, to devour. I close my eyes, relishing the thought of what she’d taste like.
Sweet, I imagine.
“Lucien?”
My cousin Anthony—my head of security—steps into my office without knocking and I’m thankful for the distraction. He’s one of the few allowed. He’s a tall lad, imposing, and gives off the aura of don’t fuck with me or you’ll die. Which, in Anthony’s case, is probably what would occur anyway.
He was the one beside me during the darkest jobs — the late-night knocks on doors that never opened again, the bodies we dumped in the river before sunrise. He saw everything I became under my father’s rule, and he’s the only one who knows just how close I came to losing myself completely.
“We’ve got word Romero’s crew has been sniffing around down at the docks. I’m thinking the cargo delays were intentional and possibly their doing. It’s a move we need to get to the bottom of.”
I don’t flinch. Don’t even glance at Briar when she shifts in her chair outside, although for some unknown, frustrating reason, I’m aware of it. “Handle it,” I say quietly. “Keep it off the books. I want no disruption here.”
Anthony nods, jaw tight. “Understood.” He hesitates, flicking his eyes toward the door. “She’s starting today?”
I follow his gaze briefly — just long enough to see Briar frowning at her screen, completely unaware of the war constantly simmering beneath this empire.
“She’s Stacy’s cousin,” I remind him. “The report on her came back clean. If you think her starting and the issues with Romero are linked, they’re not. It’s a coincidence only. Leave her out of it.”
Anthony raises his hands in defeat and says nothing more before slipping out, silent as he came.
I lean back in my chair, steepling my hands. I don’t hire people because of favors. I don’t hire people I can’t control. And I sure as hell don’t keep people around who distract me.
Briar Locke ticks all three boxes.
By ten-thirty, she’s standing in my doorway, a notebook hugged to her chest. “Mr. Moretti, do you want me to arrange lunch with your eleven o’clock with Capstone Logistics? Or just a meeting only?”
Her voice is soft, steady…professional. But I notice her knuckles are white where they grip the notebook. Seems she’s also nervous.
“Yes, that’ll work well.” I motion for her to step inside. “And while you’re at it, I want a briefing on their late shipment Friday from Pier Forty. Pull the numbers directly from operations, not the PR fluff they send us.”
She nods, jotting it down quickly. “Would you like me to…” She hesitates.
“Briar.” Her name slides off my tongue before I even think about it. Her eyes snap up to mine, wide, startled, and something tightens low in my gut.
Focus, damn it. She’s Miss Locke, not Briar.
“Don’t hesitate,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “If you have a question, ask it. Guessing wastes my time.” I don’t want to be hard on her, but she’ll need to learn quickly if she’s going to last here. I don’t have time for snowflakes.
“Understood,” she says, quieter now. “I’m sorry. I won’t make the mistake again.” She pauses, but rallies. “If they push back on giving me the data, should I say that this is a direct order from you?”
I nod. “You can do that.”
She leaves, and I find myself watching the sway of her hips as she walks back to her desk. Damn it. What the fuck is wrong with me today? Probably should have fucked Nina like she wanted over the weekend instead of cancelling our date to go over my books. Again.
I rub a hand over my jaw and force myself to turn back to the spreadsheets on my screen, ignoring the soft hum of Briar’s voice when she answers the phone outside, ignoring the click of her laptop, ignoring everything about her.
I have rules for a reason, and I never break them.
Not even when my assistants in the past have all but bent over my desk and offered themselves to me.
That isn’t how I operate. It might’ve been how my family used to do business, but that has never sat well on my shoulders.
I’ve broken bones and shattered kneecaps on command, watched men beg for their final breath — but that was survival, obligation, not pleasure.
I swore I’d never be that man again. I’ve worked too damn hard to build this company into something legitimate, and I won’t risk the feds swooping in to take it all away.
Like they did with Matteo Romero…
And like they tried to do to my father before someone else pulled the trigger first. The Moretti empire used to be built on violence and fear.
I’m trying like hell to rebuild it on steel and strategy instead.
But every time Romero’s name resurfaces, I wonder how long until the past demands blood again.
Briar answers a phone call and laughs at whatever is being said. I listen, even though I shouldn’t. I have work to do. A lot of it. She mentions her cousin’s name, and I know Stacy has rung her — probably to check how she’s doing, even though they’re only a few doors away from each other.
Briar Locke is off-limits.
So why the hell do I want to ignore all my rules and push her to her limits instead?