9. Lourdes
Lourdes
The next morning, I take my time getting ready. I don’t have the usual urge to get out of the apartment before David wakes up. The extra time allows me to pay more attention to my looks. I blow out my hair, rather than stick it on top of my head or pull it back into a bun.
Digging through my closet, I find a taupe knock-off sheath dress that could pass for expensive if the light is dim enough and no one looks too closely to see it’s polyester.
Paired with a conservative black jacket, it passes for professional and feminine.
Despite the voice on the phone being female, I could be interviewing with a man.
So instead of low black riding boots, I’ll suffer it out with heels.
The subway ride is typical for a crowded morning rush. But this crowd heading to Wall Street looks a lot different than the ones I’m used to. My back snaps straighter, and I force myself to believe this is where I belong.
I need this job, whatever it is. Now more than ever. It’s my only hope to help Sandrine. Losing access to my hidden money means I’m back to square one.
On the sidewalk, the wind in Lower Manhattan knifes between the buildings, making this part of the city feel colder than midtown.
The address leads me to a building that’s straight from the Gothic era.
It’s imposing and looks carved rather than built.
The white stone facade has been darkened by decades of weather and a brackish wind from the East River.
Unlike newer buildings made of all glass, its narrow windows sit between the outer skin like watchful eyes. There is no company name above the door. Just the address number. The text didn’t include a floor or any other instructions.
Inside, the lobby’s ceiling is a series of vaulted arches above marble floors that gleam under chandeliers hanging like inverted crowns. This is a world away from Nathan’s building, and the people are dressed very well. I pull at my jacket, not knowing if I’ll fit in.
I clock a woman in her fifties approaching me before I can reach the reception desk. Her gray hair is cut short and looks severe, framing a face composed in a way that suggests she’s seen just about everything. She wears a perfectly tailored navy pantsuit that clings to her frame.
“Lourdes,” she says firmly, not asking.
“Yes.”
“Follow me.” She nods once and turns.
I bristle at the lack of a welcome or even a handshake. But I follow as I’m told.
Crossing the lobby, I notice people lower their heads when she passes. Not dramatically, not theatrically, but unmistakably. Most notably, she doesn’t acknowledge them back.
She leads me past the bank of elevators, through a doorway, and then down a corridor paneled in dark wood. At the end is a single steel elevator door. The woman inserts a keycard into a slot on the side, and the door opens.
I follow her inside, and we ride up in silence.
Trying to calm down, I take note of the elevator lined in mirrored glass.
Discreetly, I check to see how my hair and makeup held up on the subway.
My blonde hair beams in the ceiling light and doesn’t look washed out.
The same goes for my skin, thanks to the extra layer of makeup needed to cover the lingering bruise from David’s backhand days ago.
Next to me, the woman is all composed stillness with her hands folded lightly in front of her waist.
I wait for her to say something. She stays silent. The only sound is the gentle popping of my ears, signaling we are rising to a very high floor.
Great, I’ll be working next to one of those gargoyles I saw from the sidewalk.
My pulse begins to hammer in my ears, but the elevator stops and the door opens.
The gray-haired woman steps out first.
The luxury of the space does not sneak up on me. It’s broadcast unapologetically from the first step I take onto floors made of pale stone veined with gold. The walls are paneled in rich wood, their surfaces gleaming in warm lighting from above.
More chandeliers. Ornate and decorative. Not long fluorescent tubes that buzz annoyingly and catch flies.
The woman guides me down a corridor still without speaking. No asking if I want coffee or tea. And I note that I don’t smell anything brewing in a breakroom.
The corridor opens up to glass-walled conference rooms with plush interiors. I peer to get a sense of where the hell I am. But there are no logos and no visible corporate branding. It’s just opulence.
Turning the corner, the space opens up to a single desk sitting in front of an office enclosed in glass.
No. Nathan had an office. A rectangular room with a cheap wooden desk behind a dirty window with a toilet and a wall sink that he bragged was an executive washroom.
This…this is an executive suite.
The woman opens the glass door and gestures for me to go inside. “Wait in here.”
“Thank you,” I say, immediately noticing an elegant cherrywood desk that dominates the space. It’s so clean and sparse that it appears ceremonial.
This isn’t a desk for grinding out paperwork. The block of polished wood is a place to rest a hand heavy with an expensive wristwatch while waiting for praise or delivering punishment.
Behind the desk is a built-in bookcase and a credenza. That holds some paperwork a CEO needs to have handy at a moment’s notice.
I step up to one of the many rectangular windows lining the far wall. The view steals the breath from my lungs. Manhattan strategically unfolds below like whoever works out of this office owns the city and can rearrange streets with a flick of the wrist.
We are so high up that the city feels miniature. I remember how it looked when David and I arrived on a plane three years ago. From high up, New York City is magical. Down below, you feel like one of its rats.
I notice the architectural moldings, the walls with their gilded framed paintings, décor that gives off strong Old-World vibes. Not just wealth. Power. Gifted by the gods.
Gods…
I turn, embarrassed by my gawking, ready to demand that the woman tell me who exactly I’m meeting, but she’s gone.
And he is standing there, watching me.
Ares…
I startle and raise a hand to my heart.
“It’s you,” I say, my voice more breathless than I intended.
“It is. Welcome to Zervas & Company,” he says, his thick black hair styled to complement his handsome face.
“Zervas & Company? Zervas…is Greek.”
“That’s correct.” He smiles and slips tattooed hands into the pockets of a beautifully tailored charcoal gray suit.
And if the association I made to the Italian don with similar tattoos who beat the hell out of Nathan last week was correct… Greek mafia.
Crap!
“This is your company?”
“Yes.”
“But why…” I ask, until my mind assembles a more intelligent question. “This isn’t a coincidence, is it?”
“No,” he says immediately.
Given the floor we are on and the size of this office, I assume Ares is the CEO. Something tells me he doesn’t answer to anyone. He also doesn’t sit, just rests one hand lightly on the edge of his desk.
“You bought Nathan’s company,” I say, feeling stupid.
“I did,” he admits proudly, his eyes never leaving me. “And moved them where the business can be more profitable and less subject to intimidation.”
“Did Nathan tell you I couldn’t move?” I ask quietly.
“No. From the way your husband manhandled you that night, he didn’t strike me as a man who would move for his wife’s job,” he says coldly. “And so, I created a position for you.”
The mention of David makes my stomach drop. I’ll have to explain this all to him when he gets back from his trip.
“Why?” I rub my hands together nervously.
“I want you,” he says, low and controlled. And without any elaborate explanation.
Like I’ll just say ‘okay’ and leave it there. Clearly, he doesn’t know me that well. What I’ve been through and how I question everything.
“For what?” I ask, forcing my voice to remain steady. “What is the job?”
That lone desk outside this office is a hint, I imagine.
“Let me show you something.” He motions to the seating area with a sofa and two chairs atop a woven rug on the other side of the office.
My father taught me to recognize luxury. His tutelage is failing me because I’m awestruck.
Ares gestures toward a tall architectural model positioned near the windows, something I hadn’t noticed before. I amble that way, calculating every step and every word that will come out of my mouth. Men like Ares Zervas eat people for breakfast when they smell weakness.
“This is the Aurelian,” he says, hands splaying proudly over the detailed white model that depicts an elegant and imposing building with four towers. “It’s a converted church. Despite landmark status, I’ve been able to renovate the interior.”
“It looks beautiful.” I smile at the fake little trees in an open courtyard.
“And this is the primary residence.” Ares removes the model’s miniature roof to reveal a series of rooms that make up a luxurious apartment. “I’ll move in when the time is right.”
“What will you use it for besides your home?” I ask.
“It won’t be open to the public,” he replies. “It’s neutral ground. Where men who command empires sit across from each other instead of sending soldiers. It will be the new symbol of my power to welcome the heads of such empires.”
“Like the U.N.”
“Exactly.”
My fingers skim one of the printed brochures with renderings of several floors. “It reminds me of the Paris UNESCO headquarters. All you need is your own Fall of Icarus.”
“If I want that thirty-foot Picasso in my lobby, I’ll steal it,” he says wickedly.
Steal… Uh oh…
“When will the Aurelian be ready?” I ask to move the conversation forward.
“The grand unveiling will be New Year’s Eve,” he says proudly.
“I guess you’re pretty far along.” I suspect he’s never encountered a deadline he couldn’t bend or buy his way around.
“Just finishing touches and providing tours to prospective members.”
“Like the Italian Mafia?”
He doesn’t blanch at my question, just glides his hands back into his trouser pockets. “Among others.”
“What do you need me to do for you?” I’m not sure where I fit into this level of project planning.
“Between now and New Year’s Eve, I’ll be dividing my time between here and the Aurelian,” he says. “I need someone in this office.” His gaze settles on me with unsettling intensity. “You will be me when I’m not here.”
“You need an assistant,” I say, glancing at the lonely desk in the outside waiting area.
“I need a public face. A gatekeeper. I have an entire team that takes care of my administrative needs. This…” He smiles warmly at me. “Is personal.”
“So, a personal assistant.”
This feels all too much. Too sudden. Too good to be true. I take a step back. “I don’t know if I’m the right person, Mr. Zervas.”
“Call me Ares,” he says. “And you are the exact person I want.”
The power lust in his eyes is something I should fear. Instead, it rearranges the blood in my veins. I’ve not felt this before. Ever.
“Why?” I fold my arms.
“I sense I can trust you. Your presence at Winterhall means you are familiar with the Bratva. You know about the Italians. And as you can guess from my last name…”
“I see,” I whisper.
“And this will be your salary.” He reaches into his suit jacket and produces a document bearing the Zervas & Company logo.
I glance down and see it’s a formal offer letter that lists the position as Executive Personal Assistant. In a sole line at the bottom is the salary.
It’s no wonder Ares doesn’t say the number out loud, and I’m not sure I can without trembling. His offer is exorbitant. Nearly ten times what Juniper paid me.
I grip the back of an upholstered chair without realizing I’ve moved. This salary alone will get me to my goal of helping Sandrine in weeks.
But David will see all this money in his account. He’ll fucking steal it.
I didn’t care about Nathan’s chump-change salary because my job with Juniper had value beyond a weekly paycheck I never saw. It provided a place I could steal money from that David couldn’t touch. But with this job, I’ll just be filling David’s pockets with even more cash.
The helplessness I feel expands. Anger hits me so hard that tears start to well in my eyes.
I’ll never get Sandrine out of that place.
“This is an extraordinary offer, however, my salary must be deposited into my husband’s account. I won’t have access to it,” I say carefully, forcing my voice into calm neutrality. “It’s an agreement we have. And what you’re offering…”
I stop, impressed I came up with a non-apologetic but realistic explanation. I hope he’ll understand why I have to turn him down.
I open my mouth to continue, but Ares speaks first.
“Forgive me for being blunt. Your husband takes your money in the name of some spousal high ground and gives you a spending allowance?”
Embarrassed, I nod as Ares hovers over me, close enough that I feel the heat of him as well as the scent of his spicy but smooth cologne.
“You’ve not signed my employment contract. You do not work for me in this moment, Lourdes.”
I look up at Ares and assume he’s in his early forties. He runs this luxury company and has underworld dealings. He’s met men like David before. Which reduces my husband to just an average scumbag. For a moment, I’m blessed with the relief that Ares’s disgust isn’t personal.
Clearing my throat, I say, “Correct.”
Ares takes the paper back from me and looks it over. “This is a lot of money to go into an account you don’t control.”
I deflate. Will he lower it? I’m ready to say never mind.
“Here’s what I’ll do. Your former salary, the same exact amount, will be deposited into your husband’s account,” he continues evenly. “The remainder will be structured differently.”
“Differently, how?” I hide a glimmer of hope.
Hope that I can help Sandrine sooner.
“You will receive an executive stipend. It will accumulate under a Zervas corporate account that only you will have access to. You can draw from it as you wish. It will also not reflect on your W-2.”
My pulse stutters. David will see the same low salary, but I’ll know the truth.
“There is one other matter we need to talk about.” Ares turns and walks back to his desk.
From the credenza cabinet, he withdraws a sleek, silver MacBook. He sets it on his desk, opens it, types something briefly, then spins the screen toward me.
The interface and account balance I know better than my own reflection appears in front of my eyes.
My shell account. He found it.
“Care to explain this?”
The room tilts, and I back up toward the door without thinking.