Page 13 of Claimed By the Ruthless King

“Fanculo,” I cuss under my breath. “Moretti Global will be destroyed if people find out I was involved in organized crime as a youngster.”

“Not to mention the mafia,” adds Robert, the real icing on the fucking cake. “Leaked information could cause a chain reaction. The Crows, the empire you’ve built, all based on the foundations of organized crime and murdering people; everything will come back to haunt you. All it takes is one crack.”

“And I want that crack sealed,” I say to Robert, swiping a finger over my lower lip. “On second thoughts, I want the salesman dead.”

“What happened to talking to him first, seeing what he knows?”

“What he knows is irrelevant. That bastard is a fucking ticking timebomb. I need him sorted. Tell the enforcer to take care of it and stage the death. You can figure out the rest between yourselves.”

“On it,” says Robert. “I’ll call Lorenzo immediately, making sure the issue is resolved by the end of the day.”

“Not good enough,” I grumble, consulting my watch. “Have it done by lunchtime.”

“Si,” says Robert, leaving me alone in the meeting room.

I glance over my shoulder watching people pass, picking up their feet when they see me watching.

There will always be a Judas, that one bastard who’s desperate to go against the grain, ruining things for the rest of us.

My road to success wasn’t a legal one. I used my skills from the Crows to get ahead and built something strong, but I started with an unfair advantage. I never met my parents. The corrupt government ripped me from their arms when I was just a child, wrongfully accusing them of drug abuse when they were simply trying to get by. They were working for a local dealer, in need of some extra cash. Favoritism is what led to them being deported back home to Italy, and me being handed over into the foster system. I never wanted to be adopted, to find a loving family when my only real family had been sent away. Running away, sleeping under cardboard every night, was better than being government property.

I grab Ophelia’s purse, inspecting the envelope, my name written on it.

Ophelia was in the middle of handing me this, but coffee got in the way… and then a few other things.

I rip open the envelope, unfold the paper and inspect the very formal letter, scanning the text, thinking this has to be a joke. Ophelia would never resign. She does an impeccable job. And she loves her job…

But the text at the bottom of this reads: “I have made the difficult decision to resign, effective immediately.”

All because she wants a new challenge, to seek new opportunities?

Bullshit. I give her enough challenges, always keeping her on her toes. She likes to be challenged… professionally.

I slot the letter back into the envelope. This letter tells me everything I need to know about how she feels toward me. She can handle high volumes of work, last minute schedule changes, but she cannot handle me.

I keep the letter safe with me, tucking it into my breast pocket. Grabbing her purse, I leave the meeting room, locking up. Ophelia will be staying right by my side until I’m done with her, which I’m afraid could be never.

Hanging around with the same woman for a day usually gets boring. I can only handle women in short doses. I have my cake and eat it and move onto the next. But I’ve known Ophelia for eight months and I’m still intrigued, even after bending her over my desk and fucking her tight little pussy raw.

3

OPHELIA

“Always stay away from the crows,” echoes my mother’s voice the next day as I’m rifling through her belongings, tackling through old clothes, jewelry boxes, on a mission to find something that will relate to the tattoo on Salvatore’s chest.

So far, the only thing I’ve stumbled across is an ugly picture of myself. Thanks Mother.

I sit on the floor, raking a hand through my hair when my gaze veers over to my purse—the one I tipped upside down yesterday after work. My dumb ass was too busy running across the street, into the coffee shop to fill Sapphire in on the latest. I totally forgot about my belongings in the meeting room, more specifically, the resignation letter.

Mr. Moretti gave my purse back to me, but the letter was missing…

I drag myself up from the floor, feeling sorry for myself on the bed instead. I collapse into the pillows, groaning. Mr. Moretti definitely saw the letter, but he never mentioned anything to me.

I have no other choice but to go into work on Monday and pray he didn’t open the letter.

I rebuke the resignation, and the sex.

Unfortunately, the damage has already been done for both, but I need to plow through and stay employed under this man. The crow tattoo has to mean something.