Some days, though, the old instincts itch beneath my skin — that urge to settle problems the way I was raised to, fast, final, and irreversible. Walking away didn’t erase the man I’d been. It just locked him in a steel cage I pray never needs opening again.
“Good morning, Mr. Moretti.”
“Morning,” I say automatically — and then realize I’m speaking to my new personal assistant.
Briar Locke.
I don’t say another word, just enter my office and set my briefcase down on my desk. I take out the monthly reports I went over during the weekend and frown. I take a calming breath and ignore the niggling doubt over hiring my accountant’s cousin.
Will she prove useful? Or as useless as the last one? A woman far too occupied with trying to get into my bed than getting her work done before five p.m.
Through the open doorway, I catch glimpses of Briar — head bent over her new company laptop, dark hair loose around her shoulders, lips pressed in concentration as she types. Her white linen shirt is cheap. I notice that instantly. Her nails are bare, makeup subtle. Not like most who sit in that chair. She’s naturally beautiful and striking.
She doesn’t belong here. Not in my world. She seems too soft to last working for me. My assistants in the past have had backbone, a little spunk. But Briar? I get the impression she’s intimidated by me.
Like I’d eat her for breakfast.
Not an impossibility.
My hand pauses on my phone as images of her spread on my desk, legs wide, her glistening sweet flesh mine to lick, to devour. I close my eyes, relishing the thought of what she’d taste like.
Sweet, I imagine.
“Lucien?”
My cousin Anthony—my head of security—steps into my office without knocking and I’m thankful for the distraction. He’s one of the few allowed. He’s a tall lad, imposing, and gives off the aura ofdon’t fuck with me or you’ll die. Which, in Anthony’s case, is probably what would occur anyway.
He was the one beside me during the darkest jobs — the late-night knocks on doors that never opened again, the bodies we dumped in the river before sunrise. He saw everything I became under my father’s rule, and he’s the only one who knows just how close I came to losing myself completely.
“We’ve got word Romero’s crew has been sniffing around down at the docks. I’m thinking the cargo delays were intentional and possibly their doing. It’s a move we need to get to the bottom of.”
I don’t flinch. Don’t even glance at Briar when she shifts in her chair outside, although for some unknown, frustrating reason, I’m aware of it. “Handle it,” I say quietly. “Keep it off the books. I want no disruption here.”
Anthony nods, jaw tight. “Understood.” He hesitates, flicking his eyes toward the door. “She’s starting today?”
I follow his gaze briefly — just long enough to see Briar frowning at her screen, completely unaware of the war constantly simmering beneath this empire.
“She’s Stacy’s cousin,” I remind him. “The report on her came back clean. If you think her starting and the issues withRomero are linked, they’re not. It’s a coincidence only. Leave her out of it.”
Anthony raises his hands in defeat and says nothing more before slipping out, silent as he came.
I lean back in my chair, steepling my hands. I don’t hire people because of favors. I don’t hire people I can’t control. And I sure as hell don’t keep people around who distract me.
Briar Locke ticks all three boxes.
By ten-thirty, she’s standing in my doorway, a notebook hugged to her chest. “Mr. Moretti, do you want me to arrange lunch with your eleven o’clock with Capstone Logistics? Or just a meeting only?”
Her voice is soft, steady…professional. But I notice her knuckles are white where they grip the notebook. Seems she’s also nervous.
“Yes, that’ll work well.” I motion for her to step inside. “And while you’re at it, I want a briefing on their late shipment Friday from Pier Forty. Pull the numbers directly from operations, not the PR fluff they send us.”
She nods, jotting it down quickly. “Would you like me to…” She hesitates.
“Briar.” Her name slides off my tongue before I even think about it. Her eyes snap up to mine, wide, startled, and something tightens low in my gut.
Focus, damn it. She’s Miss Locke, not Briar.
“Don’t hesitate,” I say, keeping my voice flat. “If you have a question, ask it. Guessing wastes my time.” I don’t want to be hard on her, but she’ll need to learn quickly if she’s going to last here. I don’t have time for snowflakes.
