I shrug slightly. “That’s one word for it.”
A small laugh slips around the table and my shoulders loosen an inch.
“We worked eighteen-hour days for nearly three weeks,” I continue. “Regulators wanted answers. Clients wanted blood. The media wanted a villain. My job was making sure none of those groups destroyed each other before legal finished its investigation.”
“And you succeeded?”
“We kept ninety-two percent of our clients.”
Another moment of silence, but they seem more interested now.
The woman finally leans back in her chair. “Why Ferretti Global?”
Because your starting salary could save my life and my landlord taped a FINAL NOTICE to my door yesterday while Nico colored dinosaurs on the living room floor,andI lay awake every night calculating how many meals exist inside one carton of eggs.
I smile instead.
“Your firm is expanding faster than your internal systems,” I say. “That creates vulnerability. Especially with high-net-worth clients. You need someone who understands both communication and damage control before small issues become catastrophic ones.”
Another look passes between them.
Definitely a good sign.
I’m just beginning to breathe easier when a voice speaks.
“Interesting,” a voice, one I remember immediately, says.
My head swivels to the door. It's the man from the lobby.
Either I developed selective hearing or he's a ghost, because how didn't I hear him come in?
For some reason, my heart rate picks up as he walks up to me.
One of the men sits up quickly, saying, “Mr. Ferretti. This is Ms. De Luca. She—”
“Small issues like what?” Those gray eyes pin me in one spot.
I’m still processing the shock that this man who caught me in the lobby is in fact, Valentino Ferretti, owner and CEO ofFerretti Global Risk when he steps fully into the room, all six-foot-something of almost inhuman hotness.
The panel straightens like soldiers acknowledging a general. He doesn’t even glance at them. Those stormy gray eyes stay locked on me.
He reaches across the table for my resume without wasting another moment. The motion pulls his sleeve back just enough and I notice three olive branches wrapped around a broken key in black ink.
My brain goes quiet.
Completely quiet.
All previous thoughts in my head are now violently blocked out by the steady climb of my heartbeat in my own ears.
Three olive branches. A broken key.
Fuck.
“Ms. De Luca?” He calls but that cool Italian-Southern voice only drags me further back in memory.
Back to Venice.
Back to a time five years ago, when my broken heart only cared about sex, alcohol, and escaping my father.
