Chapter 3
THREE
brIAR
By ten-thirty, I’ve answered six calls, scheduled four meetings, and accidentally stabbed my finger with a paperclip trying to wrestle Mr. Moretti’s calendar into submission.
I’ve worked for high-profile executives before, but that was three years ago, and nothing compares to this.
This isn’t just busy. This is…relentless.
Every decision feels like it carries the weight of millions of dollars, hundreds of jobs, and God knows what else I don’t understand yet.
Who knew so much freight moved in and out of the U.S.
through the Port of New York? Who knew Moretti Global owned so many cargo ships and real estate all over the world?
The man has an empire.
I don’t see Mr. Moretti much. He keeps his door almost closed most days, but even from my desk outside his office, his presence is constant. It’s in the low murmur of his voice when he takes calls, the way people’s tones shift when they speak to him — deferential, careful.
Mr. Moretti doesn’t shout. He doesn’t seem to need to.
At eleven a.m. sharp, the meeting with Capstone Logistics begins. I follow him into the glass-walled boardroom, my notebook clutched like a lifeline. I silently pray I don’t screw up my first set of notes for one of his meetings. Or worse, spill coffee if I’m asked to make it.
I suck at making coffee. I’d certainly never be asked again if I had to make them today. Thankfully, there’s kitchen staff waiting in the room who handle the beverages. I sit near a window, away from the table, but close enough to take notes and listen in.
Capstone’s reps are already seated. Two slick, tanned men in perfectly tailored suits who look like they’ve never lifted anything heavier than a golf club in their lives. I recognize the name from the files I spent the morning skimming: one of Moretti Global’s largest freight partners.
“Mr. Moretti,” one of them says, standing to shake his hand. “We appreciate you taking the time.”
Mr. Moretti’s handshake is brief, his smile nonexistent.
The man exudes power and reminds me of my ex-husband.
Men with influence and money are different from others, even if they try to pretend they’re not.
And there is something dangerous about Mr. Moretti.
And while I know his father was once part of the underworld here in New York, Stacy assured me Moretti Global has nothing to do with that kind of life anymore.
I’m counting on the fact that is true. I really don’t need any more danger in my life.
I just want a quiet existence where I don’t have to keep looking over my shoulder.
Where I can earn a good wage, go home and veg out on the sofa.
“We need to discuss Friday’s shipment.”
His tone is off, controlled, but there’s a dangerous annoyance simmering beneath it. My pen stills in my hand. His voice is low and gravely, and I can’t help but wonder what he sounds like when he’s with a lover. Does he whisper commands in that tone…
I shiver, hating that my mind went in that direction. The last time I found a guy hot as hell I almost ended up dead. I don’t need to fall for a pretty face yet again.
“Why was there a hold-up on Pier Forty? If you can’t unload my ships quickly enough, I’ll find someone else who can.”
One of the Capstone reps laughs, but even to my ears, it sounds nervous. “It was merely a breakdown of one of the cranes. It happens, but it’s been repaired.”
“One of the cranes went out last month. Capstone Logistics is a billion-dollar business. Can’t you repair your equipment, or replace it so it doesn’t break down? The delay almost cost me hundreds of thousands of dollars because of delivery issues on my end. I can’t have this happening on my watch.”
The Capstone reps exchange uneasy glances, a sheen of sweat glistening on the larger man’s ruddy cheeks. “It won’t happen again. You have our word.”
Mr. Moretti doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lean forward. He just…goes quiet. And somehow, that silence is worse than yelling.
“I don’t like excuses,” he says finally, each word soft and deliberate. “I like solutions and the assurance that Moretti Global won’t have to explain to my associates why their shipments aren’t arriving on time.”
One of the reps stammers something about the mechanical issue at the port, blaming the delay on their contractors.
Mr. Moretti leans back in his chair, expression unreadable, and taps one long finger against the armrest. “And yet it’s my containers sitting at Pier Forty instead of being halfway across America on trucks and trains right now.”
His pale-gray eyes lock on to one of the Capstone men, and it’s like watching a predator pin its prey. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just…lethal in its calm.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Mr. Moretti says, voice low and even. “You’ll waive the surcharge on this shipment. You’ll fast-track the next three without fees. And if there’s another delay like this?” He pauses just long enough to make the silence heavy. “We’ll take our business elsewhere.”
The rep’s jaw tightens, but he nods quickly. “Understood, Mr. Moretti.”
Mr. Moretti doesn’t nod back. He just moves on, shifting the conversation to the next agenda item as though the exchange never happened.
I sit quietly in the corner, taking notes but watching everything.
He’s terrifying. Not in an obvious, shouty, threaten-to-shoot-you-in-the-face kind of way — something I’m unfortunately too familiar with.
It’s more subtle than that. He radiates control, the kind that comes from knowing exactly how far his power reaches and how much damage he can do if someone crosses or disappoints him.
Was he anything like his late father? Were his brothers the ones who helped him run this momentous company? There wasn’t anyone in New York who didn’t know of the mob boss Leo Moretti.
By the time the meeting ends, Capstone’s reps practically trip over themselves leaving the room. Mr. Moretti stands, smoothing a hand over his tie, and glances at me. “Summarise the adjustments to the contracts,” he says. “I want the document on my desk before five.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti.”
His gaze lingers a fraction too long before he turns away. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, a sharp, unwelcome flutter that has no business being there. Even after I’m back at my desk, my pulse ticks faster than it should.
By two, my head is pounding, my inbox is overflowing, and I’ve refilled my coffee cup three times. That could be the reason why my head is pounding…
Stacy swings by with a grin and sets a chocolate bar on my desk. “You’re surviving,” she whispers, like it’s a miracle.
“Barely,” I whisper back. “Does it get easier?”
She laughs softly. “No. You just get faster.”
Mr. Moretti’s door opens, and we both look up instinctively. He steps out, phone to his ear, his expression carved from stone. “I don’t care what he said,” he murmurs into the receiver as he strides past, voice low but sharp enough to cut glass. “If Romero wants a war, he knows where to find me.”
The name hits me like a bucket of ice water.
Romero. War?
I shouldn’t care. It’s none of my business. But the name sticks in my head, heavy and dangerous, and I catch myself glancing at the elevator doors as they close a few moments later, wondering what the hell that was about.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Briar. No one knows you were married before or to whom. You’re safe here.”
I nod, but panic threatens to override my composure, and I take a deep breath.
Matteo Romero can’t hurt me now. We’ve been divorced for three years, and he doesn’t even know I’m back in New York or working for Moretti Global — a place the Romero family would never set foot.
Surely it’s the safest option, and with Stacy already working here, it made perfect sense.
“I hope you’re right.” I meet Stacy’s eyes and can see that even though she says one thing, fear lurks in her blue gaze. “I probably should’ve told Mr. Moretti about my past. If anyone finds out you hid my history during the security check, we’ll both be fired.”
“No one will find out. I’m clever, remember.” Stacy stands and winks before heading back to her office.
By late afternoon, the office feels emptier, but not calmer. There are people everywhere, going about their jobs, and I’m thankful for the distraction. My unease fades as I focus on work, telling myself I’m safe here. Starting fresh.
“Miss Locke, my office.”
I jump at the sound of my name and quickly fumble my way to him.
“I want you to dictate my response to the New York Port Authority.”
I sit across from him, notebook open, pen poised. “Of course. I’m ready when you are.”
He leans back in his chair, one hand draped lazily on the armrest, the other holding his phone. He looks perfectly composed, but there’s an edge to his words today, a sharpness I can’t quite define. Unless this is how he always is, a little daggerish.
I focus on his words, scribbling them down in shorthand, but awareness of him hums beneath every breath.
His voice is magnetic, cultured, deep. With the name Moretti, I expected he’d have the pronounced accent his late father was known for, but he doesn’t.
His voice is smoother, educated, rich. And God, it’s unfair how hot it sounds.
“Read it back to me,” he says when I’m done.
I do, and he nods once. “Very good. Send it.”
I close the notebook and start to rise, but his gaze catches mine, holding me in place.
“You’re adjusting.” It’s not a question — more of a statement — and I pause, unsure if I should answer.
“I’m trying,” I admit, because lying to him feels pointless. “There’s a lot to learn and reacquaint myself with. I haven’t worked for a while, so I’m a little out of practice.”
One corner of his mouth tilts, not quite a smile. “You’ll get there.”
I leave his office with my heart pounding, my thoughts tangled. What is it about him that leaves me off-balance? Like I can’t catch my breath. Like I could close my eyes and lose myself in the sound of his voice for hours.
The idea of his lips — his wickedly sinful mouth — brushing my ear as he whispers something in that low, commanding tone hits me hard, and heat pools low in my belly.
I grip the edge of my desk until my knuckles ache. What the fuck is wrong with me? I cannot lust after my boss. How cliché is that?
By the end of the day, I’ve answered twenty-seven emails, and triple-checked the Capstone figures before sliding the final summary onto his desk. When I gather my bag, ready to leave, I glance into his office one last time.
He’s still there, sleeves rolled up, pale-gray eyes fixed on his screen, jaw tense. The city skyline glows behind him, painting the glass in streaks of gold and shadow.
I don’t know why I pause. Maybe because, for a moment, he looks…alone.
I shake the thought away quickly. This isn’t my business.
Mr. Moretti isn’t mine to debate and analize.
And yet, as I step into the elevator and the doors slide shut, I know I’ll keep doing the same tomorrow.
Even if I shouldn’t.