Chapter Three
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Lorenzo
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Right on time. Oh, we’ve been expecting her, which explains why we let Danny, from security downstairs make her think she was going to meet Moretti.
And here she is.
Isabella Larson in all her glorious flesh, in our newly acquired boardroom of the Onyx Empire, and now also the heads of the Onyx Mafia. It hadn't been an easy run, but here we are. Emilio Abati, Marcello Pacini, and I, sitting on the king's throne.
Getting Pablo Moretti to give up his coveted seat as the head of the most dangerous mafia of all time had come with a slew of endurance tests. But when the stakes were so high, we smashed each one of them time and again.
Moretti enjoyed our enthusiasm, but more than that, without any sons, he knew we were the only three men who could take the Onyx Empire to levels of prestige unheard of before.
With our combined wealth, bordering over five hundred billion dollars for each of us, the Onyx Empire is now untouchable.
With our names and power acquired through our own family connections, the organization is now incomparable.
We're high achievers and fail at nothing—well, except for Isabella Larson. Now all she has to think is how serendipitous that she arrived in our offices the same day Moretti said goodbye to his throne. But while she might think it fortuitous, we aren’t the kind of men to leave things to chance.
We knew she was going to walk into the Onyx office weeks before she did.
She just put our takeover of the empire into overdrive, and nothing would have stopped us from being the ones she met when she entered the building.
And again here she is.
The moment her eyes land on us, she freezes mid-step, her stunning green irises glittering with shock before confusion, recognition, denial, then back to confusion.
She then shakes her head as if she's seeing things and does a full reboot right in front of us by softly slapping her cheeks, making them pinker than before. Except her eyes aren't deceiving her, she soon realizes, and now her gaze is linked with full-fledged panic.
"No," she says, pointing at us accusingly. She's debating whether she stepped into the wrong building, the wrong timeline, or the entirely wrong planet.
"No. No, no, no—what are you three doing here? You can't be here. I have a very important meeting, and you can't be here."
On heels as thin as a pencil and possibly just as long, she rushes toward us and tries to physically push us out of the boardroom door. She really is using all her might, except we don't move an inch. She's so fucking cute when she's chaotic like this.
Wearing a dark skirt that enhances every inch of her body and a pale coral blouse that ignites her eyes, Isabella Larson is the most beautiful woman in the world, and we believe that collectively.
And now she's working up a sweat trying to push us out of our own boardroom.
"You can't be here. I'm on very official business. Critical business," she huffs, having given up on trying to dislodge me out the door, then Emilio, and now she's attempting to get Marcello to move.
She could do this all day; we don't mind since whiffs of her perfume permeate the air and heat the blood in our veins, or that her pretty, soft hands feel like bliss on the hard muscle of our backs.
When she fails to push us out, she tries to pull us out by our ties, begging us to leave, while adding her life depends on this meeting.
She gives up eventually. Out of breath, her once perfectly done hair escaped its bounds, and now thick, dark tresses frame her face, her cheeks reddened with exertion.
"Okay, please. I'm begging you. You need to leave before Mr. Moretti gets here. I have a very, very, very important meeting with him. Please," she pleads.
We exchange looks, and the same thought goes through our heads: Isabella Larson, naked on her knees, begging with that level of eagerness to take our dicks into her mouth.
Fuck. The thought displaces all three of us at once.
We knew she was going to show up with a marriage proposal. The thing about Isabella is that we know everything about her all the time.
She is and will always be the bane of our existence.
Her father made some really bad business decisions, bad investments, worse judgments, and a resort project that burned through all their money.
As of yesterday, he was sitting in some Neapolitan jail cell, his capture more mafia-related than not paying his contractors.
Some gangs thought they could get a ransom for him, thinking the Larson mafia still had clout.
Even before we moved into the Onyx skyscraper, we got him released, and by the time Isabella leaves our offices, her father would be home safe. That had been our first order of business.
Now we're onto Isabella and her marriage proposal. Or rather, marriage proposals.
"Isabella Larson," Emilio says, offering her his killer smile.
"What brings you to our kingdom, tesoro?" Marcello asks, adding on his own brand of charm.
"Your... kingdom?" she asks, stammering. She's so damn pretty when she frowns. She seems to catch herself, straightens her shoulders, and glares at us. Done playing games with us, I see.
"I'm here to see Mr. Pablo Moretti. If you have an appointment with him as well, please, can you leave and let me have mine first? I won't be long, I promise."
"Do you mean you want to speak to the owner of the Onyx Empire?"
"Yes, him. Pablo Moretti, fifty-ish, silver fox, very hot," she says, using her hands to articulate her words.
She thinks Pablo Moretti is hot. I'd like to make my hand hot on her ass, and by the looks of it, Emilio and Marcello think the same.
"You're looking at the three new owners and heads of the Onyx Empire, Isabella. Pablo retired. He's out of the business. What can we do for you?"
She opens her mouth to say something, closes it, and repeats before she unclasps her purse, digs inside, and retrieves her cell phone. Her slender fingers with their red tips fly across her screen.
And then her green eyes widen with first renewed shock and then more utter confusion. She must have read the hundreds of breaking news articles of the new owners of the Onyx Empire. In civilian circles, we run everything from hotels to car factories; underground, we now rule the world.
"Do you have something to ask us, Isabella?" I ask innocently.