Page 10 of Pietro
"Hypothetical example." But his gray eyes study me for a heartbeat too long. "You'll also need to manage his temper. When he throws things?—"
"Duck?"
A ghost of a smile crosses Liam's face. "Precisely. Though you handled this morning rather well as I saw. Most secretaries cry after the first mug."
"Most secretaries probably had better options."
This time he actually chuckles, a low rumble that transforms his face. "Fair point. Now, about the upcoming meetings?—"
"What's so fucking funny out here?"
Pietro looms in his office doorway, his presence sucking the air from the room. The muscle in his jaw ticks as his gaze shifts between Liam and me.
"I was explaining protocols, sir," Liam says smoothly.
"Sounded like comedy hour." Pietro's dark eyes lock on mine. "We don't pay you to flirt, Kelly."
Heat floods my face. Not embarrassment but fury. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing at the absurdity. Because of course a woman shares one laugh with a man and suddenly she's batting her eyelashes.
Liam excuses himself with a subtle nod in my direction, leaving me alone with my new boss and his prehistoric assumptions.
"Flirting?" I let just enough amusement color my voice to be dangerous. "Is that what you think happened? A man explains filing systems and I swoon?"
Pietro steps closer. "Watch your tone."
"Or what? You'll throw another mug?" My first day and I'm already pushing boundaries I shouldn't even approach. But his arrogance, his assumptions, the way he radiates danger and expects everyone to cower, ignites a reckless anger in my chest.
His eyes narrow to slits. For a moment, neither of us moves.
"Get back to work," he finally says, voice low and controlled. More dangerous than when he shouts.
I turn back to my desk, hands steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. Behind me, his office door doesn't close. I feel him watching.
The phone rings.
"Sartori Import and Export, Mr. Sartori's office."
"Where the fuck is Pietro? We had a delivery scheduled for?—"
My fingers fly, the muscle memory is a comfort. Two clicks bring up the shipping schedule. My eyes scan the grid, finding the name in a sea of data. "Mr. Ricci," I cut through his tirade, my voice pure, professional ice. "Your delivery is Thursday. Dock seven. Three PM." I don’t offer an apology for his mistake. I offer a solution. "Confirmation email is on its way."
Silence. Then: "Who the hell are you?"
"Mr. Sartori's new administrative assistant. Is there anything else?"
"Just make sure that shipment arrives on time, sweetheart. Things get unpleasant when I'm disappointed."
The threat rolls off him like oil, coating the words with implied violence.
"Noted. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Ricci."
I end the call. Pietro hasn't moved, but something in his posture has shifted. Less coiled, more curious.
The phone rings again. Customs official, wanting to know why form 7501 hasn't been filed for last week's imports. I navigate the bureaucracy with practiced ease, promising the forms within the hour, smoothing ruffled feathers with professional competence. Pietro's fingers drum on his desk, a steady rhythm that matches my pulse.
Third call. This voice is different—younger, cockier, with an Irish lilt that makes my spine lock.
"Tell Sartori the Murphy family sends regards. And a message."
