Page 9 of Pietro
Pristine marble and chrome stretch before me on the floor. Chicago sprawls below the windows, a maze of steel and glass from the autumn sun. The reception area sits empty. No one else arrives this early, apparently. Good. I need time to establish myself before Pietro shows up.
His office door stands open. I pause at the threshold. The chaos inside is a language I understand. It speaks of desperation, of a man drowning. The broken glass from yesterday still glitters near the wall, the sharp edges a dull reflection of the man himself.
File folders spill from boxes onto the rug. The desk, that massive mahogany beast, drowns under invoices, manifests, and what looks like dried blood on a customs form.
I set my purse on what will be my desk in the outer office and walk into his domain.
I ignore the blood-stained manifests—for now—and focus on the shattered glass. Using tissues from my purse, I pick up the glittering shards. The soft clink as they hit the bin is the only sound.
Then, the paper. Customs forms, urgent. Invoices, pressing. A shipping manifest from years ago? This goes in the trash.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"
Pietro fills the doorway, the morning light behind him turning him into a dark silhouette. Six feet two inches of barely controlled rage. Fresh coffee stains decorate his white shirt.
"Organizing." I look back to the manifest I was examining. "Your filing system is unacceptable."
"My filing system is fine."
"You have October invoices mixed with January customs forms. This is a shipping manifest from three years ago."
He stalks into the room, and I feel the atmosphere shift. A blur of motion. A whoosh of air against my cheek.
The explosion behind me is deafening. Ceramic shrapnel bites into the wall. Cold coffee drips down the fresh paint like brown blood.
I don't flinch. I don't scream. I don't give him the satisfaction. My pulse is a frantic bird against my ribs, but my hands are still. I turn, slowly. His chest heaves. The emptiness in his eyes is gone, replaced by a wildfire. He wants me to break.
"That's coming out of your pay." His voice is a low growl, meant to terrify.
It doesn't.
I walk to the wall, my heels silent on the rug. I pick up the largest piece of the shattered mug. "Fine," I say, my own voice steady. "My efficiency will more than cover the damages."
"Get back to work."
He drops into his desk chair, and I return to sorting papers. The weight of his stare is a physical thing, pressing between my shoulder blades. I can feel him dissecting my every move, looking for the tell, the weakness. I give him nothing.
I'm halfway through sorting the last year’s tax documents when footsteps echo in the hallway.
"Miss Kelly." Liam Blackwood stands in the doorway, his British accent making my fake name sound almost elegant. "I need to show you how things work here."
Pietro's head snaps up. "She's working."
"She needs to know the protocols, sir." Liam's tone stays professional. "Ten minutes."
Pietro waves his hand dismissively, already focused back on whatever document he has in front of him.
Liam leads me to my desk in the outer office. He pulls out a leather portfolio and sets it between us. "Right then. People will call about meetings. Some legitimate, some not. You need to know the difference."
He opens the portfolio to reveal a typed list. Names, companies, and what looks like codes beside each one.
"Mr. Sartori's schedule runs on priority levels." His finger traces down the list. "These five always get through. Family andcritical associates. These ten, you schedule within forty-eight hours. Everyone else waits."
I scan the names. Lorenzo Sartori—restaurant supplies. Nico Sartori—logistics. The codes are simple but telling. RS for restaurant supplies. L for logistics. But I recognize the pattern underneath. Restaurant supplies means money laundering. Logistics means enforcement.
"Some callers won't give names," Liam continues. "They'll say things like 'Tuesday's shipment' or 'the Boston matter.' Write everything down exactly as they say it. Don't interpret."
"The Boston matter?" My voice stays level despite my pulse jumping.
