Most people break at that point. Panic, plead, grasp for anything that might delay the inevitable.
She didn’t.
She watched.Looking for an angle.
My coffee sits untouched on the desk, already cold.
“We’re going to be working closely together,” I say. “Formality seems unnecessary.”
“I’d prefer to keep it professional, Mr. D’Amico.”
Would you, now.
Interesting.
I stand.
She tenses. I see it in the sudden stiffness of her shoulders, the way her weight shifts slightly backward. Ready to run.
But she doesn’t. She holds her ground, even as I move around the desk toward her.
It reminds me of someone.
A kid, fifteen years old, standing in front of a man who could have killed him with a word. Not running. Not begging. Just waiting, calculating, deciding whether to fight, to survive.
That was twenty-five years ago.
“You’re not here because of your preferences.”
I stop a few feet away—well within her space, close enough that she can’t ignore me.
“You’re here because I control your silence. Your work. Your time.” A slight pause. “Everything.”
She holds her ground.
“Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
I tilt my head slightly. “Yes, what?”
She hesitates. I can see it in the tension of her shoulders, the way her hands curl at her sides. Resistance, stubborn and pointless.
It won’t last.
“...Yes, Raffaele.”
Hearing my name like that—quiet, reluctant—lands harder than it should. A brief, unwelcome heat settles low, gone as quickly as it comes.
Noted.
“Get me the Martinez files.”
She turns without another word.
I watch until the door closes behind her. Only then do I exhale.
Interesting.
