Page 5 of Pietro

"What?"

"There's someone here about the position."

"Send them away. I'm not?—"

"You have to see her." He cuts me off, something he rarely does. "She didn't flinch when Susan ran past crying. Didn't blink when she heard you throwing things. Just asked where to wait."

I look up from the blood on my knuckles. "And?"

"And maybe you should talk to her before you scare this one off too."

The laugh that escapes tastes bitter. "They all run, Liam. Smart ones run faster."

"Then maybe we need someone who isn't smart." He pauses. "Or someone desperate enough not to have a choice."

Desperate. The word hangs between us like a challenge. I know desperation. I'm drowning in it.

Even if it's a sinking ship commanded by a captain who wants to drown.

"Fine." I wave him off. "Send her in. Let's see how long this one lasts."

Liam leaves, and I make a halfhearted attempt to clear the desk. Manifests into one pile, bloody reports into another. The resignation letter from this morning's casualty goes in the trash where it belongs. I leave the broken glass on the floor. Let her see what she's walking into.

Footsteps in the hallway. Lighter than Liam's.

She appears in the doorway, and for the first time all day, the whiskey haze in my head recedes. The room sharpens into focus around her.

Not beautiful in the obvious way. No fake tits or porn-star pout like the girls who usually apply. Auburn hair, pulled back sharp enough to hurt. Green eyes that meet mine without flinching, even though I know what I look like right now. Drunk, bloody knuckles.

Navy blouse buttoned to the throat.

"Mr. Sartori?" Her voice doesn't shake. Boston accent bleeding through the professional polish. "I'm here for the secretary position."

CHAPTER THREE

PIETRO

She steps into the office without invitation, heels crunching on glass shards. No hesitation in her stride. Most women see this office, see me, and their fight-or-flight kicks in.

Liam clears his throat. "This is Miss Kelly. She called about the position this morning."

Kelly. Irish name. Fucking perfect, while Connor O’Sullivan and the Murphys dismantle my operations.

"I'll leave you to it." Liam retreats.

The door clicks shut. We're alone.

She stands before my desk, hands clasped in front of her. Still. Waiting.

I lean back in my chair, studying her. Light from the window ignites the red in her hair.

The blouse hides her shape but not the straight line of her spine. The severe hairstyle should make her look harsh, but it just emphasizes the curve of her neck, the delicate shell of her ear. There's something underneath the professional armor. Desperation maybe, though she hides it well.

"You sure you're in the right place?" I let my voice drop to the register that usually sends them running. "This isn't exactly a Fortune 500 company."

"I know what Sartori Import and Export does." She meets my gaze without blinking. "I can type ninety words per minute and I don't ask questions."

Don't ask questions.