“Don’t give me that shit. I had to sit through twenty minutes of Moreno bullshit without backup. Do you know how that made me look? Victor was circling like a fucking shark, and every time someone asked where you were, I had to stand there like an idiot, saying I didn’t know.”
“You’re the heir to the Conti family. You should be able to handle a few hours of conversation without a chaperone.”
“Handle—” He sputters. “You were supposed to be there. You’re always there. What the hell was so important that you blew off the biggest sit-down of the year?”
“Work.”
“Work.” He laughs bitterly. “You blew off the gala for work. That’s your explanation.”
“That’s my explanation.”
“On what? What case could possibly be more important than?—”
“I stayed because I wanted to.” I cut him off, voice flat. “That’s all you need to know.”
“That’s all I—” He’s practically choking on his own outrage. “You don’t get to just decide to skip these things. Vincenzo expects you there. I expect you there. You’re supposed to be?—”
“I do. I just did.” I watch the hallway through the glass wall. Waiting. “We’ll talk tomorrow, Nico.”
“Don’t you dare hang up on?—”
I hang up.
The silence that follows is almost pleasant.
I set the phone face down on my desk. Nico will fume. He’ll complain to Vincenzo. There will be conversations tomorrow, careful explanations, the usual dance of managing egos and expectations.
I find I don’t particularly care.
Footsteps. She’s coming back.
Bea rounds the corner, and the weight of Nico’s anger lifts off my shoulders. Just like that. Gone.
The dress fits her perfectly.
I had it tailored based on the same measurements as before—the ones from her employment file, adjusted after seeing how the first dress fell. The neckline is lower this time. The fabric clings differently. She looks...
I don’t hide that I’m looking. I let my gaze travel slowly down her body and back up again. Let her see exactly how much I’m appreciating the view.
“This doesn’t mean anything. It’s just a dress.”
“It means quite a lot, actually.” I gesture for her to sit. “It means you’re officially my assistant. Not a receptionist on loan. Not a temporary arrangement. Not something I’m still deciding about. Butmine.”
She sits. The red silk pools around her legs.
“Which brings us to your next lesson.” I settle back in my chair. “If you’re going to work for me, you need to understand the landscape. The families. The politics. The players.”
If I’m going to be stuck here doing paperwork instead of working the room at the gala, I might as well make it interesting.
“Tell me what you know.”
“I don’t?—”
“Start with Martinez. You’ve read the file.”
She straightens, shifts into a more professional posture—spine stiffening, chin lifting, voice flattening into recitation mode. A defense mechanism. I’ve seen it before, in witnesses preparing for cross-examination. In people who think formality will protect them.
It won’t. But it’s entertaining to watch her try.
