“I don’t like excuses,” he says finally, each word soft and deliberate. “I like solutions and the assurance that Moretti Global won’t have to explain to my associates why their shipments aren’t arriving on time.”
One of the reps stammers something about the mechanical issue at the port, blaming the delay on their contractors.
Mr. Moretti leans back in his chair, expression unreadable, and taps one long finger against the armrest. “And yet it’s my containers sitting at Pier Forty instead of being halfway across America on trucks and trains right now.”
His pale-gray eyes lock on to one of the Capstone men, and it’s like watching a predator pin its prey. Not loud. Not aggressive. Just…lethal in its calm.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Mr. Moretti says, voice low and even. “You’ll waive the surcharge on this shipment. You’ll fast-track the next three without fees. And if there’s another delay like this?” He pauses just long enough to make the silence heavy. “We’ll take our business elsewhere.”
The rep’s jaw tightens, but he nods quickly. “Understood, Mr. Moretti.”
Mr. Moretti doesn’t nod back. He just moves on, shifting the conversation to the next agenda item as though the exchange never happened.
I sit quietly in the corner, taking notes but watching everything.
He’s terrifying. Not in an obvious, shouty, threaten-to-shoot-you-in-the-face kind of way — something I’m unfortunately too familiar with. It’s more subtle than that. He radiates control, the kind that comes from knowing exactly how far his power reaches and how much damage he can do if someone crosses or disappoints him.
Was he anything like his late father? Were his brothers the ones who helped him run this momentous company? There wasn’t anyone in New York who didn’t know of the mob boss Leo Moretti.
By the time the meeting ends, Capstone’s reps practically trip over themselves leaving the room. Mr. Moretti stands, smoothing a hand over his tie, and glances at me. “Summarise the adjustments to the contracts,” he says. “I want the document on my desk before five.”
“Yes, Mr. Moretti.”
His gaze lingers a fraction too long before he turns away. I feel it in the pit of my stomach, a sharp, unwelcome flutter that has no business being there. Even after I’m back at my desk, my pulse ticks faster than it should.
By two, my head is pounding, my inbox is overflowing, and I’ve refilled my coffee cup three times. That could be the reason why my head is pounding…
Stacy swings by with a grin and sets a chocolate bar on my desk. “You’re surviving,” she whispers, like it’s a miracle.
“Barely,” I whisper back. “Does it get easier?”
She laughs softly. “No. You just get faster.”
Mr. Moretti’s door opens, and we both look up instinctively. He steps out, phone to his ear, his expression carved from stone. “I don’t care what he said,” he murmurs into the receiver as he strides past, voice low but sharp enough to cut glass. “If Romero wants a war, he knows where to find me.”
The name hits me like a bucket of ice water.
Romero. War?
I shouldn’t care. It’s none of my business. But the name sticks in my head, heavy and dangerous, and I catch myself glancing at the elevator doors as they close a few moments later, wondering what the hell that was about.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Briar. No one knows you were married before or to whom. You’re safe here.”
I nod, but panic threatens to override my composure, and I take a deep breath. Matteo Romero can’t hurt me now. We’ve been divorced for three years, and he doesn’t even know I’m back in New York or working for Moretti Global — a place the Romero family would never set foot. Surely it’s the safest option, and with Stacy already working here, it made perfect sense.
“I hope you’re right.” I meet Stacy’s eyes and can see that even though she says one thing, fear lurks in her blue gaze. “I probably should’ve told Mr. Moretti about my past. If anyone finds out you hid my history during the security check, we’ll both be fired.”
“No one will find out. I’m clever, remember.” Stacy stands and winks before heading back to her office.
By late afternoon, the office feels emptier, but not calmer. There are people everywhere, going about their jobs, and I’m thankful for the distraction. My unease fades as I focus on work, telling myself I’m safe here. Starting fresh.
“Miss Locke, my office.”
I jump at the sound of my name and quickly fumble my way to him.
“I want you to dictate my response to the New York Port Authority.”
I sit across from him, notebook open, pen poised. “Of course. I’m ready when you are.”
