Ricardo
Chapter Four
During the day, this floor has its own kind of noise. Phones behind closed doors. Shoes on polished tile. Low voices in the hall. The elevator opening and closing. Assistants moving between offices with folders, coffee, messages, contracts, and whatever else keeps an empire like this running.
At night, Conti Enterprises becomes something else.
The lights stay on, but they’re dim, and it seems the energy changes.
The glass walls reflect more than they reveal.
The offices along the corridor look desolate in their emptiness.
Chicago stretches beyond the windows in hard lines and scattered light, and the building feels less like a place where people work and more like a place where bad decisions are made long after reasonable men have gone home.
I am not a reasonable man, which is why I am still at my desk with two contracts, a revised financing proposal, and a pounding headache that has settled behind my right eye.
Mario left hours ago. Victoria had an appointment for the baby, and Mario, who treats schedules almost religiously, did not dare be late for that.
He walked past my office with his jacket over one arm and his phone already in his hand, looking faintly annoyed that the rest of the world dared need him at the same time Victoria did.
I told him to go.
He told me not to touch the Reeves documents until morning.
I touched the Reeves documents ten minutes later.
The problem is not the documents. The problem is the third cup of coffee I should not want and absolutely intend to have. I stare at the last page of the proposal for another thirty seconds, then give up, push back from my desk, and stand.
Mario keeps better coffee outside his office than what we keep in the communal kitchen.
He also keeps an espresso machine that looks like it requires a degree, but I know how to use it.
My brother does not tolerate bad coffee, bad tailoring, or men who waste his time.
Of the three, bad coffee may offend him most.
I leave my office and step into the hall.
The floor seems empty.
A few security lights glow near the elevator bank. One desk lamp burns behind frosted glass at the far end, but that office belongs to a man who forgets to turn it off at least twice a week. Lorenzo’s door is closed, the light beneath it gone. Mario’s office suite should be empty, too.
I walk toward it without hurry, loosening another button of my shirt as I go.
Then I hear a small sound from the sitting area outside Mario’s office.
I stop.
At first, I think it is the machine. A hiss, perhaps. A drip. Some mechanical complaint from one of Mario’s expensive toys.
Then I hear a woman’s voice, clearly frustrated.
“Come on. You little—”
I lift my brows and smile.
She is still here.
That surprises me, though perhaps it should not. Julia O’Brien has the kind of work ethic that’s a blessing and a curse. A blessing as an employer because she does not leave things undone. A curse for her because the people around her will learn to rely on that.
I stand in the hall for a moment, just outside the opening to the sitting area, debating whether to continue forward or turn back.
If she is working late, there is a reason. If she thinks she is alone, she may prefer to remain that way.
Then something shatters. A small tinkle of glass against the floor.
A second later, Julia says, very clearly, “Fuck me.”
My smile turns into a full grin.
Well, well.
Miss O’Brien has range.
I step into the sitting area. “I see that thing brings out the best in everyone.”
Julia, who was crouched and reaching for the broken glass on the floor, jerks at the sound of my voice. She startles upward and hits the back of her head on the edge of the counter with a hard thud.
“Shit,” she snaps, dropping back down and pressing her hand to her head.
My amusement disappears.
“I’m fine,” she says immediately, though her eyes are squeezed shut and her jaw is tight.
I cross the room quickly. “You are bleeding?”
“No. I don’t think so.” She opens one eye and looks up at me. Her expression is somewhere between pain, embarrassment, and murder. “You scared the hell out of me.”
“I see that.”
“Do you always materialize behind people?”
“I walked.”
“Like a ghost.”
Despite myself, I laugh. “May I?”
“I am fine.”
“I would like to be the judge of that.”
She looks at me for a second, then lowers her hand with a sigh.
I step closer and crouch beside her, careful of the glass. She sits back on the floor in her tailored suit, knees bent slightly, one hand braced behind her.
Her hair is pinned, but several strands have come loose around her temples. Her lipstick has faded. There is a small crease between her brows, and her eyes look brighter than usual.
Tired, I think. Frustrated probably as well.
I lean in enough to look at the back of her head without touching her. There is no blood. A little redness beneath the hair near the base of her skull, but the skin is intact.
“No blood,” I say.
“Wonderful. I’ll alert the press.”
“You may have a bump.”
“I already had a headache. This will just amplify it.”
I will have to find something for that.
I look around the coffee station for a moment. Broken glass lies across the floor near the cabinet, clear shards scattered against pale stone. A glass carafe, probably, or what remains of one. Coffee spreads in a dark puddle beneath it, creeping toward the edge of the rug.
Julia begins to move. “I need to clean that before it stains.”
I put one hand out. “Stay where you are.”
“I’m fine.”
“Just sit.”
Her mouth tightens. “I don’t need—”
“Julia.”
For a second, I think she will argue, then her shoulders drop.
“Fine,” she concedes.
I go to the small refrigerator beneath the counter, take out a bottle of water and a tray of ice, then find a clean towel in the cabinet. Mario keeps everything stocked like a hotel. For once, I appreciate how anal he is.
I wrap the ice in the towel and return to Julia.
“Here.”
She reaches for it. I give it to her, and this time our fingers touch. Her hand is cold. The contact lasts one second, maybe less, but I definitely notice it.
She presses the towel to the back of her head and winces.
“Thank you,” she says.
“You are welcome.”
Then I take off my jacket and drape it over the back of a chair.
Julia watches me. “What are you doing?”
“Cleaning.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
“I can call maintenance.”
“At this hour?”
She hesitates. “I guess not.” She sags back to the floor, leaning back against the cabinet. “What would I tell them anyway? I fought with an espresso machine and lost?”
A laugh escapes me.
“The evidence certainly isn't in your favor.”
Her eyes narrow again, but this time, there is something like humor behind the look. “The machine started it.”
“Of course.”
“It was making a noise.”
“A threatening noise?”
“A smug noise.”
I reach for the small broom and dustpan tucked beside the cabinet. “A serious accusation.”
We go silent as she watches me clean for a moment. “Did you need something?”
“Hmm?” I ask as I sweep.
“You came here for a reason. Did you need something?”
“Coffee.”
“Ah,” she says. “Instead, you found me and a mess to clean up.”
I look at her. She is still sitting there in her suit, holding ice to the back of her head with as much dignity as a woman can manage while surrounded by broken glass and coffee.
“I have had worse evenings,” I say.
Her mouth moves into a smile. That is better.
I finish sweeping the glass and carry it to the trash. Then I take paper towels from the cabinet and blot the coffee before it reaches the rug. Julia shifts as if she intends to stand and help.
“Sit,” I say.
She freezes, then looks at me with a bland expression. “Do you give orders to everyone?”
“Yes.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I try to be.”
“No, you don’t.”
I pause and look back at her.
Her eyes meet mine.
There is nothing playful in them now, though the remark was not cruel. She simply states it as a fact.
I straighten slowly. “No?”
“You are polite. You are charming. You are careful. I’m sure all of that is useful. But honest?” She looks at the towel in her hand for a second, then presses it back to her head. “I don’t know.”
The quiet after that is weighted.
I should be offended, and yet, I am not.
“I should be offended,” I say. “And yet… You may be confusing honesty with disclosure.”
“Maybe.”
“I do not lie as often as people think.”
“Maybe, but you lie strategically,” she says. “I've been around a lot of politicians.”
I laugh. “This time I am offended.”
“Oops,” she says. “I’m injured. My defenses are compromised.”
“And your vocabulary has become more colorful.”
Her cheeks flush slightly. “You heard that, huh?”
“All of it.”
“Wonderful,” she mutters.
“Your secret is safe.”
“That’s a relief.”
I finish cleaning the mess, toss the towels away, and then wash my hands at the small sink before turning back to her.
“Now,” I say. “How is your head?”
“I'll probably live,” she says.
“Very good,” I say before turning back to the machine.
She watches me skeptically.
“You know how to use that thing?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“I hate you a little.”
“As long as it's only a little.” I start the machine. “What were you trying to make?”
“Coffee.”
“The machine makes espresso.”
“I am aware of that.”
I glance over my shoulder.
She sighs. “I wanted coffee, the regular coffee was gone, and I thought, how difficult can it be? Then it hissed at me, I opened the wrong thing, burned my finger, knocked over the carafe, and said several things my mother would pretend she had never heard before.”
“You burned your finger? How bad?”
“Not as bad as the bump on the head.”
“Are you accident-prone, Miss O'Brien?” The machine hums as I get it going.
“Not usually. Today? Yes, apparently.”
“Do you want one?” I ask.
“After what that machine did to me?”
“It will behave for me.”
“That’s irritating, but yes, please.”
I make two espressos, then hand one cup to her. I sit on the floor next to her with mine.