Page 15 of Ruthless Mr. Ricco
I glance at the address on my phone and eye the tall, shiny building.
Smaller workspace, my ass.This is bigger than my parent’s entire apartment complex.
I suck down the last of my coffee and scan the sidewalk for a trash can, even though fancy buildings like this rarely have receptacles around them.To my surprise, several sleek grey bins line the curb, and when I toss my empty cup inside, the few items at the bottom prove they’re emptied often, probably daily.
Most high-end businesses do everything they can to repel the homeless and those looking to take advantage of free dump sites, but the sidewalks are as immaculate as the building despite having none of the new-age hostile architecture.The only visible cues stopping loiterers are the security cameras.
Not even a guard stands at the door, but at seven-forty on a Sunday morning, they probably just have the door locked.
I check my phone and confirm the text message sent by Mr.Ricco’s assistant contains nothing but the agreed upon time and building address.No suite number, contact info, or door code.
Either Matteo’s assistant is as much of an asshole as he is, or the man himself gave strict instructions to only send an address.
I check my reflection in the glass wall and adjust the lapels of my suit coat before striding to the front door.Maybe I should have worn something less austere, but my new boss gave me no instructions, and since I have no idea what the job actually entails, I came dressed for the highest—and worst—possible outcome.
Part of me expects him to laugh in my face and kick me out the door with a team of lawyers prepared to build a false case about me slandering his company now that he’s had time to realize my father blacklisted me, but since I signed the employment contract and verbally agreed to be here, I plan to follow through to the best of my abilities.
After holding the scalding coffee cup for so long, the cold door handle feels like ice, but I pull, fully expecting it to be locked.
I hesitate when the door opens without resistance.
Someone clears their throat from inside, so I enter the building and step to the side as the door swings closed.
The front counter gleams in the overhead light as posh chairs and stylish rugs sit in picture-perfect balance on the polished floor.A man wearing dark grey slacks and a white button-down shirt stands with a tablet at the ready and annoyance in his clear blue eyes.
I step forward and extend my hand.
“Good morning!My name is—”
“Brook Simons, yes, I know.Follow me,” he demands with a dismissive wave over his shoulder as he turns and glides down the hall.
Alright, then.I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome, but this is ridiculous.I note the disrespect while burying my pride under the numbers promised in the contract.
I’ve worked countless part-time jobs while studying and caring for my mother.Nothing this man throws at me will phase me.I got this.
With a calming tug of my suit front, I drop my hand to my side and follow the unwelcoming host deeper into the building.After taking a posh elevator and walking through a maze of halls, he stops in front of a glass-walled meeting room unlike any I’ve ever seen before.Colorful beanbags, odd-shaped stools, and tables of different heights lie scattered about the room.Screens cover two walls while the third consists of floor-to-ceiling windows offering a fantastic view of the city.The first full rays of sun break over the taller buildings.
“You’re not as late as the last contender, but here’s the list.The meeting starts in eighteen minutes.I’ll check your preparations in thirteen,” the man with no name says.
He holds a notepad out to me, but I don’t take it.I swear, he’d roll his eyes if he wasn’t so focused on glaring.
Instead, I reach into my pocket, retrieve my phone, snap a photo, and send it to the number that sent me the time and address.
The man’s pocket chimes.
I click the icon next to the sender and offer him my phone.He lifts a brow.
“Your contact information, please,” I say.
His lips purse in consternation.I check my watch.
“Twelve minutes,” I challenge, refusing to take the list until he concedes.
With a scowl, he snatches my phone from my fingers.
“I could just delete this picture,” he snarls.
“Yes, you could, but that won’t remove it or the time stamp from my storage cloud or from our service provider’s logs,” I state as I take the notepad from him.
