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“I’ll put a bullet in her brain myself.”
I sat in the conference room alone and took my time enjoying my cigar. The smoke filled my lungs with pleasurable electricity before it slowly filtered out of my nose. I’d finished paperwork, emails, and phone calls, but I was in no rush to leave. Time passed slowly, and I sat there, thinking about nothing.
I wasn’t just the richest man in this country, but I was also the youngest to accomplish the feat. My mother never had to worry about money ever again, and my brother and I would never have to struggle for the rest of our lives. Sitting at the top of the world should give me a beautiful view, a climax that never faded.
But it felt bland, boring, and artificial.
Was this depression? Was this hopelessness? I didn’t have a single complaint to make, but yet, I felt empty inside.
Why?
Giovanni knocked before he opened the door. “Miss Siena is here to see you, sir.”
I kept smoking my cigar. “Send her in.” I’d forgotten she was stopping by that afternoon. Decorating my home was a large task that would take her at least a month, and every time she moved on from one room to the next, she needed my approval.
She stepped inside a moment later, dressed in black with white pearls. Her elegance was respectable, but anytime I looked at her, I pictured that hourglass shape, those luscious tits, and that wet pussy that could service my dick like a pro. Her folder was under her arm, and she helped herself to the seat on my left, remaining as professional as ever.
I didn’t put out my cigar like a gentleman. I continued to draw the smoke into my lungs as I stared at her, admired the woman who was so indifferent to me it was a miracle she remembered my name.
She crossed her legs then opened the folder on the table.
I waited for her to tell me to put out the cigar.
“You seem moody today.” She flipped to the correct page then clicked the top of her pen.
“I’m always moody.”
Today, her hair wasn’t pulled back in the rigid librarian look. It was curled and thick, framing her face and reaching past her shoulders. Pearl earrings were in her lobes, and her bright red lipstick was the perfect shade for her skin tone. She was a gorgeous woman whether her hair was up or down. She could be dressed in a potato sack with no makeup, and I would still find her fascinating. Something about this woman drove me wild, but I hadn’t figured out what that quality was.
She watched me bring the cigar to my lips and puff the smoke into the air.
I waited for her to tell me to put it out.
“You’re being awfully rude.”
“Am I?” I set it in the ashtray, letting the smoke rise to the ceiling.
“You don’t offer me a cigar?”
I did my best to hide the surprise from my face, but I couldn’t. Instead of nagging me to be healthier, she wanted to join in on the fun. I grabbed another cigar and placed it in my mouth to light it. Then I handed it over.
She held it between her fingers and took a deep breath, the smoke dancing around her slightly open mouth.
I’d never seen anything so sexy.
She slowly let the white smoke escape from her mouth and nostrils before it rose to the ceiling. She took another drag, closing her eyes like she was really treasuring it. Then she set it in the ashtray and turned to her notes.
“Most women would ask me to stop.”
“Most women have never enjoyed a good cigar.” She turned her papers toward me and showed me pictures of the new paintings she wanted to hang on my walls. “I visited Milan the other day, and I found these. Since you host important clients in this room, I thought we should put our most stunning pieces here.”
I looked at the pictures she’d taken with her phone, but the flash and poor quality didn’t do the work justice. “Bring them here like the others so I can see in person.” The paintings weren’t that important to me, but seeing them with the naked guy was a much better way to judge the impression.
“I can’t do that with these. They’re being housed at the museum. You never gave me a budget, so I wasn’t sure what price range you were looking for. But these are also some of the most expensive pieces in the world.”
The arrogant asshole inside me wanted to laugh. “Money is no object, baby.”
“This one alone is ten million euros.” She pointed to the Monet. “It’s been at this museum for twenty years, and they aren’t willing to let it go for a euro less.”
My Tuscan home was a power symbol, a subtle way to impress and intimidate the men I worked for. There was nothing too expensive or outlandish. “The price is fair. We’ll head to Milan and see the painting in person.”
