Chapter 3 - A Hundred Thousand a Year
|
Out in the quiet carpeted corridor of the thirty-second floor, Clara Vance leaned back against the mahogany paneling and let out a long, shaky breath, looking at Elena as if she had just grown a second head.
Just before the four massive security guards in dark suits had stepped inside Boardroom A and pulled the soundproof oak doors shut behind them, Elena had caught a glimpse of Count Sabatini scrambling backward out of his chair, his arrogance completely gone as Lucian stood up and began unbuttoning his suit jacket.
"Where on earth did you learn to read statutory maritime Italian like that?" Clara whispered, adjusting her glasses in disbelief. "I paid the translation firm on Lex forty thousand dollars to vet that document!"
"They didn't misread it by accident, Ms. Vance," Elena said quietly, her pulse finally beginning to slow down—only for the cold dread of unemployment to take its place. "That double-negative phrasing in Clause 17 is a classic civil-law trap. Whoever translated the English summary at your firm on Lex was bought off by Sabatini’s people to smooth the language over."
Clara’s eyes widened. "Bought off? That firm handles all of our European customs filings!"
Before Elena could answer, Brenda came marching around the corner from the elevator bank, her face purple with fury when she saw Elena standing outside the boardroom doors empty-handed while the corporate counsel talked to her.
"What are you doing out here?!" Brenda hissed, grabbing Elena by the elbow. "I told you to stay inside and keep the coffee hot! Did you spill something on one of the guests?!"
"Leave her alone, Brenda," Clara said sharply, stepping between them.
"You stay out of housekeeping, Clara! If Mr. Bellini is unhappy with the service, it’s my neck on the chopping block!" Brenda turned on Elena, pointing a trembling finger toward the service elevator. "Go downstairs, hand your security badge to the front desk, and clean out your locker. You’re done here—"
The heavy oak double doors of Boardroom A swung open.
Count Sabatini and his five associates emerged into the corridor. None of them were bleeding—Lucian wasn't careless enough to spill blood on his own thirty-second-floor carpet during business hours—but Sabatini’s silk tie was hanging shredded in two pieces around his neck, his right wrist was cradled tightly against his chest as if dislocated, and all six men were white as chalk as Dante, Lucian’s six-foot-five head of security, escorted them toward the passenger elevators in dead silence.
Sabatini didn't even dare look toward Elena as he passed.
Then Lucian stepped out onto the threshold of the boardroom.
He was rolling down his pristine white cuffs and refastening his platinum cufflinks. His gunmetal eyes swept past Clara, ignored a stammering Brenda entirely, and landed squarely on Elena.
"Clara," Lucian ordered. "Take a team down to the translation bureau on Lexington Avenue right now. Find out which translator signed the certification sheet on Sabatini’s file, freeze their accounts, and find out how much Milan wired them."
"On it, Boss," Clara said, practically sprinting toward the stairs.
"Mr. Bellini," Brenda began breathlessly, wringing her hands together and bowing her head. "I am so terribly sorry for the temp’s behavior inside. I just fired her on the spot—she’s leaving the building right now—"
"Did I tell you to fire her, Brenda?" Lucian asked softly.
Brenda froze, her mouth opening and closing like a landed fish. "W-well, no, sir, I just assumed after she disrupted the signing—"
"That 'temp' just saved this company two hundred million dollars and fourteen cargo ships," Lucian said, his voice cutting through the hallway like a scalpel. "If you ever raise your voice to her again, you’ll be scrubbing the bilge tanks on one of those ships by Friday. Go back to your desk."
Brenda fled down the corridor so fast she nearly lost a heel.
Lucian turned his dark gaze back to Elena. "Inside. Now."
Elena swallowed hard and stepped back into the cavernous boardroom. The coffee cups were still sitting on the table, except one crystal water carafe lay shattered near the baseboard where Sabatini had clearly been shoved against the wall.
Lucian closed the heavy doors, shutting them in together, and leaned back against the edge of the obsidian table, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he studied her from head to toe.
"Columbia University," Lucian said quietly, picking up his smartphone from the table where a background check screen was already pulled up. "Master’s in Romance Philology, summa cum laude. Fluent in Italian, French, Spanish, and Latin. Father is Dr. Arthur Mercer, retired Columbia history professor, diagnosed with Stage 3 Parkinson’s two years ago."
Elena’s breath caught in her throat. "You ran a background check on me in three minutes?"
"Dante ran it while Sabatini was apologizing for his eyesight," Lucian replied smoothly. He took a slow step toward her, towering over her five-foot-five frame, smelling of cedarwood, espresso, and dangerous authority. "Why is a woman with an Ivy League degree wearing a ten-dollar apron and pouring coffee for men half as smart as she is?"
"Because when you apply to corporate firms with a humanities degree and say you cannot travel or work late past six o’clock on Tuesdays and Thursdays because you have to give your father his evening physical therapy, HR throws your resume in the trash," Elena said honestly, lifting her chin to meet his eyes. "Temp coffee girls don't get asked to travel, and the shift ends at four."
Lucian stared down at her for a long, silent beat. The cold amusement that had been in his eyes twenty minutes ago was gone, replaced by a sharp, calculating respect—and something much darker.
"Take off the apron," Lucian commanded.
Elena blinked. "Sir?"
"Take it off."
Slowly, her fingers reached behind her waist, untied the white strings, and lifted the apron over her head.
Lucian took it from her hands and dropped it straight into the brushed-steel trash bin beside the credenza.
"Starting ten seconds ago, you work directly for me as my personal executive translator and document analyst," Lucian said. "One hundred and fifty thousand a year. Full executive medical coverage that pays one hundred percent of your father’s private neurological care—including a registered night nurse so you aren't killing yourself on four hours of sleep."
Elena stared at him, her heart hammering against her ribs so hard she felt dizzy. "One hundred and fifty thousand... Mr. Bellini, that’s four times what a translator makes. What is the catch?"
May you like
Lucian stepped closer until the toe of his Italian leather shoe brushed hers.
"The catch, Elena," Lucian murmured, his voice dropping an octave, "is that Count Sabatini doesn't work alone. The Milanese syndicate belongs to the Camorra—and you just humiliated their chief negotiator to his face. By tonight, every gunman they brought into New York will be looking for the girl who read Clause 17."
