Page 35 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Gross, no way. Besides, my mother never dated. It was only ever me and her.”

Sapphire runs a hand through her dark hair, staring at me intently. “Conspiracies aside, we know something for sure—your boss could be dangerous. You need to tread with caution, Phee.”

“Working as his assistant gives me the perfect opportunity to dig. Only a few other people in the company have access to what I do. This is my time to strike.”

Sapphire glances over her shoulder again, her voice almost a whisper. “You need to be careful. He could kill you.”

“I highly doubt that, considering he refused my letter of resignation.”

“Yeah, because you’re not on his radar. The second he suspects something, you could lose everything.”

“Including very good sex,” I joke.

Sapphire flashes me a look, not finding that funny in the slightest. “Don’t poke the bear. Investigate by all means but do it covertly.”

“Don’t worry, I’m good at hiding my tracks.”

“Until your heels are clomping on the floor, announcing your presence to everyone,” scoffs Sapphire. “You should start wearing flats.”

“Flats are for people who have given up in life,” I say, taking a final sip of coffee and taking the rest for the road. “I should go.” I rise from the table, embracing Sapphire in a tight hug. “Let me know if he pays the hospital another visit.”

“Yes,” says Sapphire. “And maybe find out why he beat the guy up. That could be our lead if the dude knew too much.”

I snap around, a lightbulb flicking on in my head. “You can ask him yourself.”

“Excuse me?”

“The patient—if he’s still in the hospital, of course.”

“That would be risky. It’s in a different department. But I’ll see what I can do,” says Sapphire, bidding me goodbye.

I cross the road, coffee in hand, and head straight back to the office on the top floor, ready to get started with some investigating. Salvatore is rarely out of the building, so I have to make the most of this time.

Putting my thinking cap on, I start by pulling out boxes under his desk, scanning documents for the word ‘Crow.’ After another unsuccessful ten minutes of nothing, I jump behind his desk, logging into the computer. Oh, the perks of being Salvatore Moretti’s assistant, knowing all of his passwords. I look through meeting reports, stock information I don’t really understand.

After scrolling through settings on his web browser, inspecting the search history, I sit back into the office chair, defeated, having wasted more precious time.

I’m drumming my nails on the solid oak desk, contemplating what Mr. Moretti will do to me later, when the web address at the top of the screen grabs my attention. At first glance, everything appears to look fine, but web addresses are usually made up of words and numbers, not a bunch of random letters.

Leaning forward, I click on the search bar, viewing the full address. Endless random numbers extend across the page. Salvatore is using outdated software, and the portfolio takes a bazillion years to load when I refresh the page.

Am I looking at the dark web?

I watch the screen for a while, mulling some things over. Messing around on Mr. Moretti’s computer is risky, seeing as though there are multiple types security software running in the background of the system. Interestingly, none of them have flagged the dodgy-looking web address, but I suppose Salvatore chooses what the software decides to flag.

I rise from the desk, leave the office and head into the male bathrooms on a hunch. Only a select few people have access to this floor—Robert, a few other executives, myself, and the leader himself.

After knocking, hearing no response, I push open the door, entering the male bathroom. The stalls all unlocked, the place completely empty.

I push open the three stalls, searching every corner until I come across a folder.

Propping myself up against the sinks, I open the folder. But before I can open it all the way, a polaroid slips out.

I squat down, retrieve it from the floor and flip it around. I have officially found gold.

I abandon the folder, staring at the polaroid. A group of teenage boys, pose with neutral faces outside of a dilapidated building, hands clasped at their fronts, looking like they mean fucking business.

While analyzing each of their faces, looking for Salvatore in the picture, I come across something much more interesting. An older man stands in the middle of the group, his face completely ruined, like he was set on fire… or drowned in bleach…