Page 16 of Mafia King: Matteo (Borrelli Mafia #1)

He hits the button to release the emergency stop. In my post-coital bliss, I lean against the wall and watch the elevator door open. The doors open and shut—he’s gone.

I take a deep breath.

Fuck, that was intense.

I’m powerless against him. I can’t hold out for answers. I’m a victim of falling under the spell of Mr. Grey.

I press the number 10 and pull my skirt down. I fluff my hair, smooth my modest skirt with the palms of my hands, and pick up my purse off the floor as the elevator door opens.

When I stand upright, I find myself face-to-face with Dima. He’s a Russian wall, standing tall before me. There’s no getting around a confrontation.

“What the hell happened?” he asks in Russian.

“I’m flustered. I was stuck. I don’t know what happened. It jerked, and I kept hitting the buttons, and then it started to move. So here I am!”

“Your cheeks are flushed. Are you okay? Was anyone in there with you? I saw it stopped before the eighth floor.”

I say, “No,” and hope there is no video feed of the inside elevator.

“Well, I reported it to maintenance. I was in a panic. Did you see him?” He asks in Russian.

“No. I’m sorry if I worried you. I’ll wait for you next time,” I offer in an attempt to console him. I have to throw him off Mr. Grey’s scent as quickly as possible.

“I think that’s best. I don’t trust this situation with your mystery man. Every day that passes is a reason for concern. You should have never let it get out of control,” he adds as he gruffly takes me by the arm and leads me to the office like a child.

“Fine,” I snap as he opens the glass doors to the office. I sail through it, and my face is still pink with the afterglow of my sexual encounter.

I walk toward the sound of muffled voices and find myself in a huge conference room surrounded by glass. This feels like a fishbowl.

“You must be the new girl,” a chipper voice says behind me. When I turn, I see a woman a few years older than me. She’s wearing an argyle sweater, black slacks, and brown ankle boots.

“Yes, I’m Alena Pasnov. I was hired yesterday.”

“I’m Penny. I’m Sophia’s assistant. She’s our boss. Follow me. I’ll introduce you.” She’s shorter than I but walks faster, and I practically jog to keep up.

“Thank you,” I reply as I follow her. We pass three partitions that each house a chair and a laptop. I notice a main printer in an office station to the left with shelving for supplies. There is a room with fabrics and color scheme templates.

The office concept is an open work environment to facilitate collaboration.

The overstuffed floor pillows and spa music playing in the background help to stimulate creativity.

There’s no need for artificial lighting because a wall of windows allows plenty of natural light.

I’m surprised at how comfortable I feel already in this new environment.

At the end of the hall, Penny stops at a frosted glass door and knocks lightly before opening it.

“Here she is! Sophia, this is Alena,” she says, stepping out of the way.

I take this as my cue and walk to extend my hand. “Nice to meet you,” I say.

She places her soft hand in mine. “Welcome. I see my request for staff hasn’t fallen on deaf ears after all. Make yourself acquainted with the staff. We work primarily in groups, so make friends.”

“Thank you,” I say as Penny nods toward the door.

“She’s gorgeous,” I mumble to Penny as she shuts the door to Sophia’s office.

“She’s Italian, as in Sicilian. She’s nice if you’re on her good side.”

“How do I manage to do that?”

“Don’t be late and never say anything bad about anyone is a good start.”

“That’s not so difficult, is it?”

“Give it time,” she chuckles. “You’re new. Everyone will be nice at first.”

“This isn’t as cutthroat as working in the fashion industry, is it?”

“I’ll let you be the judge of that,” she says, and I detect her English accent.

“Where are you from?” I ask before we enter a room where my co-workers are gathered.

“London. We also have a design office located there. Otherwise, I’d never be approved for a visa to work in the States.”

We’re standing outside the break room when Sophia comes to get us and points to the big-screen monitor.

It looks like we’re having a staff meeting.

We gather in front of the screen to watch a video featuring several five-star resorts from around the world.

We’re supposed to see what the competition is doing and develop something just as impressive.

The amount of money spent on lobbies and amenities to impress guests and win awards is truly impressive.

“Nice to meet you, Alena. Welcome to the team,” Nathan says.

“Thank you,” I reply as I take his hand, and we shake. The pitch of his voice is higher than I expected, and as soon as he moves to grab material off a shelf, I realize women probably aren’t on his menu.

“This is Cindy. She’s worked on movie sets, and she can help you coordinate the vendors,” Penny says.

“Hi, Cindy,” I say.

“Hi. You were a quick hire,” she states before looking at Penny. “Haven’t we been waiting months for a new hire?” She throws a questioning look at Penny.

Penny shrugs. “We have. Isn’t it great we have more help?” she replies enthusiastically.

“Just peachy,” Cindy replies. She has red hair, is under five feet five, and stares down at her black-rimmed glasses to study me.

Looking around at my co-workers, I’m the youngest person here. It doesn’t take long to figure out that most have years of experience with Fortune 500 companies. I am in rare company, and no one will take me seriously.

This leads me to wonder why I was hired when there had to be more qualified applicants.

On the bright side, I have a job, and by the end of the day, I conceptualize the project.

We’re redoing the hotel floor, which will be replicated when the rumored new hotel is built.

No one mentions a location, but I’m not concerned. I have a job and a purpose.

After Dima drives me home, I have dinner for one in my condo after I shower and change. I pour myself a glass of wine before calling my mother. I assume she’ll be happy to hear I’ve been self-sufficient when I inform her that her daughter is the newest member of the working class.

She congratulates me, and she appears to be preoccupied. I assume she’s in a mood. Then my father starts screaming obscenities in Russian.

I hold the phone away from my ear.

What the fuck?

“I don’t want you working at that hotel. Those Italian bastards, the Borrellis, own it.”

Mom grabs the phone. “Sorry, dear. He’s in a mood,” she says.

“Mom, I didn’t do anything wrong. I thought he would be proud of me.”

“I know, dear. Don’t mind him. Come by for an informal dinner party next week. I’ll send you the date and time. It’s casual, but do your hair and dress nicely. Gotta go.”

She hung up before I could say goodbye.

Dinner? What is going on? The two of them are behaving strangely. I was just there for dinner.

If this isn’t cryptic, I don’t know what is. Dad has not been himself, and it sounds like he’s still stressed out.

I call Izzy. Neither of us has a clue what is going on with my father.

To forget my family’s weirdness, I changed the discussion to my first day at work and Izzy’s naps.

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