“Yes, though we place and receive additional shipments throughout the month that’re not on the books. No one in this office is involved. The same for my restaurants and processing centers.”
“So whoever we’re looking for is involved on the shipping side?”
“Or our warehouses.”
Bianca nods, her mind racing through thoughts between narrowed brows. “I need to look at the files of all the employees who work across the street and in your targeted warehouses. I’ll also need CCTV footage and access to employees’ email accounts before I conduct interviews. This week, I’d like to meet your staff.
“You’re sexy when you’re in your element,” I confess, squeezing the base of my dick to calm it.
A smile plays across her lips. “You’re the first to compliment me on my thoroughness. I usually get ignored or told I’m doing too much.”
“Your old boss is a fucking idiot. What else do you need?”
“A laptop, paper, and colored pens, please.”
“My God. You’ll have to ship me home in one of your containers.” Bianca moans around arancinifilled with pistachio, cream, and prawns. “How do you not come here every day?”
“Meetings.” I chuckle at the shimmy she does when something tastes good.
We packed up and hit the markets at her request. She made friends at the office who quickly prompted me to give her the Catania experience. My staff never feels comfortable telling mewhat to do, but they didn’t hesitate to push me out the front doors with a pat on the shoulder and a promise to handle outstanding meetings.
I’ve never ended my day after lunch to do nothing, but watching Bianca smile while she stuffs her face is worth it.
“There’s so much.” She beams at fruits we don’t need.
“I’ll remind you that you’re staying on a citrus grove. Put the lemons down.”
“They’re so big.”
“I’ve got something bigger.”
She swats the shopping bag straps digging into my shoulders. “Nastiness aside, thank you for taking me here. I haven’t been to a market since I was younger.”
“Farmer’s markets?” I guide us past tents with more food we don’t need.
“Those and Lexington Market. Mama Vee would take us on the weekends when we didn’t go to Mondawmin Mall for her Chicken George.” Bianca snickers at a memory. “Stephanie and I used to hook near the market all the time.”
“Hook?” The lines in my forehead deepen.What kind of racket was her mama running?
Bianca grins back, the sun splashing her honey-brown skin in thick waves. “Hooking,“ she says with emphasis. “Sometimes twice a month.”
I don’t know whether to hug or pray for her.
“Did you ever hook?” she asks, bouncing in white sandals she’d wrapped around my waist when I carried her through La Pescheria to keep them clean. “Skip school for the day?”
I let out a long breath. “That’s what you meant? I need a dictionary for your slang.”
Her mouth tumbles open. “Me?I’m not the one who uses minchia fifty-two different ways. What the hell does testa di minchia mean, anyway?”
A woman covers her son’s ears, shooting a glare at Bianca, who frowns.
“It means dickhead.” I smile.
“Are you telling me we’ve been speaking the same language this whole time, Benny? I love a good dickhead. So did you skip school?”
I shift Bianca’s bags over my shoulder. “Sorry to tell you I’ve never hooked a day in my life.”
She rises on her tiptoes with a smirk. “Liar. You’re hooking now, boss.”
