I appreciate that.
Even as I want to see what it would take to make her lose it.
She reaches my door, pauses for one breath, then knocks.
“Come in.”
The door opens.
She steps inside, and I see up close why Diego mentioned the lack of sleep.
He was not exaggerating.
There are faint circles under her eyes. Her makeup is applied expertly to hide it, but it cannot entirely erase the weariness. Her jaw is tight, her posture controlled, her energy carefully contained.
She is exhausted.
And she is annoyed at herself for it.
That is more interesting to me than anything she might say about risk management.
Dreams, Diego said. Though she clearly hadn't meant to say it.
I wonder what her dreams entail.
I wonder what she would do if I asked.
Nothing good, surely.
And nothing I should want to find out.
Still, those eyes, exhausted or not, sweep the room when she walks in, and, again, I wonder what it is she sees when she takes it in.
My office is on the corner of the building, windows on two sides looking over the river and the city I now control. There is nothing left of the previous CEO, who preferred dark and heavy furniture.
Mine is light and modern. Clean lines, pale wood, glass.
There is no clutter.
There is a small bar hidden behind panels where I keep the expensive scotch Ricardo prefers, the tequila Diego likes, and the bottle of amaretto Lorenzo still drinks after all these years.
There are also no family photographs.
No mementos.
No history.
My office is a place of work. It is not a home.
Her gaze returns to my face.
“Mr. Conti.”
“Ms. Murray.”
I gesture to the chair opposite my desk. “Please.”
She walks to the chair and sits.
